


Seiche

by CeilingKiwi, shadraquarium



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MerMay, MerMay 2020, Merman Connor, Merman Hank, Minor Violence, Suicide Attempt, Who is Also Sometimes Human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeilingKiwi/pseuds/CeilingKiwi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadraquarium/pseuds/shadraquarium
Summary: Hank is pulled back to consciousness by a pain in his chest— aching and constant, as if he’s been coughing too hard. That pain is accompanied by a strange, solid weight that lies not just on his chest, but all down his torso, trailing off to the side.Hank opens his eyes.A brown-haired man has his mouth firmly clamped over Hank’s. He blows air into Hank with such force that it makes something deep in his chest spasm.***Written for HankCon MerMay 2020! Featuring art byshadraquarium.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 95





	Seiche

**Author's Note:**

> This piece and its art were created for the 2020 HankCon MerMay Zine, which can be found [here.](https://twitter.com/HankConMerms)
> 
> Please mind the tags; this fic deals with themes of mental illness and codependency.

_Seiche_

The sun beats down on Hank’s tanned, spotted shoulders. It’s another hot, muggy day in the Florida Keys.

Today, Hank thinks, might be a good day to die.

By any measure, it’s a gorgeous day. Through the breaks in the trees, there isn’t a single cloud to be seen and the sky is so bright that it hurts Hank’s eyes to catch a glimpse of it. The air is thick and humid where Hank is standing in the thicket of trees by the beach, but he can see the mangroves closest to the open ocean sway in a gentle sea breeze that would cool him if only he were to draw closer. And although it might be hot, Hank knows there are thousands of men his age who would give anything to be where he’s standing now where the warmth can ease their tired bodies.

Hank can’t bring himself to care about Joe Schmoe up in Detroit or wherever, huddled in front of a heater and wishing he could chase away the chill of a Michigan winter with a little Florida sun. A mosquito buzzes by Hank’s ear and as he lifts his arm to swat it, he gets a whiff of his own body odor, and Hank can see himself clearly. Fifty-three years old, burnt, naked, crusted with salt and dripping with sweat. He can’t remember the last time he had a shower and he can’t remember the last time he felt dry, even when he spends days at a time out of the ocean. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt alive.

And this is what he wanted. This is what he chose when he made the decision to abandon his human life. Leave behind his job and his mortgage and his cell phone and all the human beings who do nothing but disappoint and disgust him.

He takes a swig of home-made wine—coarse and burning and grainy, but then Hank doesn’t drink to enjoy his alcohol, he drinks to get drunk and has since before he left civilization—and the bottle is more than half empty by now. Drink is the only thing Hank can even pretend he looks forward to anymore, and Jesus, if that doesn’t just make Hank feel like the lowest son of a bitch on the face of the planet.

The deeper he gets into the bottle, the more the thought of his own death appeals to him. This isn’t the first time he’s had thoughts like this, far from it, but this is the first time he’s had absolutely nothing else holding him back. A bag of fresh oranges he snatched off a boat bound for Kingston, clams baked on an open fire right by the shore, the starry night sky and the sound of the waves practically right beside him—he’s never had much out here, but there’s always been something to stay his hand.

But lately, it’s been harder and harder to derive any pleasure from the little things that used to keep him going. He stares out at the ocean and it doesn’t look as blue and vibrant as it used to be. It just looks gray and dark.

And really, what’s the point? If this is all he has, what’s the point? Every day he finds a dead fish caught in the roots of one of the mangroves, and ridiculously enough, Hank finds himself relating. Here he is in one of the most beautiful places on the planet, and he’s circling the drain, watching the color and any joy that might have been left to him seep out of his life. He watches the sun rise and watches the sun set, slowly dying a little more with each day that passes. Why shouldn’t he just skip all the tedium and get to the part he’s been waiting for?

Hank finishes the bottle with one last deep pull, and he has to prop himself up with an arm to keep himself from going over backwards as he tips up the bottle to get at the last few drops. He pushes himself to his feet and staggers through the sandy thicket of mangroves toward the ocean, the world tilting beneath him.

He intends to drown himself—to swim out as far as he can until he’s too exhausted to possibly make it back. Then he’ll let the waves drag him down, and with his weak human lungs, he’ll be dead in minutes.

But before he can make it out to the open water, the world crashes up to meet him. His face slams into the wet sand, and it takes Hank a moment to realize he has tripped on the roots of a mangrove, his body half-sprawled between two trees.

He lays there for several minutes, trying to work up the will to push himself up.

But fuck, he’s so tired. 

He’s close enough to the water, anyway. He can hear the surf lapping at the shore not too far from where he’s laying. With his feet still tangled up in the mangrove roots, maybe he’ll be lucky enough to drown when the tide comes in.

Hank shifts in the sand to make himself comfortable, sighs, and closes his eyes. He can feel the sun dappling his back, and he hopes when the ocean swallows his body, the tide will be just as soft and warm.

***

Hank is pulled back to consciousness by a pain in his chest— aching and constant, as if he’s been coughing too hard. That pain is accompanied by a strange, solid weight that lies not just on his chest, but all down his torso, trailing off to the side.

Hank opens his eyes.

A brown-haired man has his mouth firmly clamped over Hank’s. He blows air into Hank with such force that it makes something deep in his chest spasm.

Hank jerks away, heaving and retching. The man tumbles off him instantly, and Hank rolls to his side and coughs up seawater and bile.

“Good afternoon,” the man says in a strangely bright, modulated voice. “How are you feeling?”

Hank wheezes. His lungs are on fire and he feels like he can’t get enough air no matter how hard he gasps and splutters. Eventually he dissolves into uncontrollable, ragged coughs as the edges of his vision start to go black.

“That’s to be expected,” the man says in that same bright voice. “You’re currently experiencing respiratory impairment as a result of a near-drowning.”

“F-Fucking,” Hank chokes out between coughs. “...Fuck!”

The man pounds Hank on the back. “Remain calm and take deep, even breaths. Your blood oxygen saturation is currently at 90%, and a healthy level is anywhere from—”

“I know,” Hank barks hoarsely. The tightness in his chest is lessening bit by bit, although he still has a terrible ache, as if someone had smashed him in the chest with a battering ram. It suddenly occurs to him that something not too dissimilar to that might have actually happened. “Did you… did you fucking give me CPR?”

“I did.” The man sounds vaguely pleased with himself. “I found you tangled in the roots of a mangrove tree, already unconscious. Being programmed with rescue protocols for such an occasion, I freed you and towed you back to shore, where I began resuscitation efforts.”

Hank squints. The ground still feels like it’s tilting uneasily beneath him, but something about what the man just said sounded off. “...Programmed?”

“Yes, with rescue protocols along with about four terabytes of medical knowledge and several hundred basic first aid procedures.”

Hank frowns and pushes himself up on his elbows to get a good look at the brown-haired man. The first thing he notices is that the man is glowing in places--a small blue circle at his temple, a blue stripe of light that encircles the bicep of the dark gray material that Hank recognizes as a wetsuit top--and further down, where Hank notices that the man doesn’t have legs at all. Just a long, fish-like tail that’s made out of some polymer that Hank can’t even begin to identify, but is clearly entirely inorganic. It too is glowing in certain places, such as by the two long fins that flare out from the man’s hips, and deep in the seams between the panels that comprise the tail’s surface.

Hank recoils back. Nothing about the man’s appearance is particularly horrifying, but now that Hank has enough of his wits back to take in the whole of his body, the sight of something so glaringly artificial attached to what appears to be a normal man’s torso repels him on an instinctual level. The tail shifts in the sand in an altogether too-fluid way, the way a living being would move, and Hank pushes himself away in revulsion.

“The hell are you!?” Hank says.

If the artificial merman notices Hank’s shock, he doesn’t give any indication. He just rests his hands on the sand now that Hank is too far away for him to touch. “My name is Connor. I’m a multidisciplinary aquatic android developed by Cyberlife and owned by the Coast Guard.”

“The Coast Guard,” Hank repeats. “The Coast Guard, what, builds mermaids now?”

“No, Cyberlife does,” Connor says. “And I’m not a mermaid. I’m an android.”

“The hell you are!” Hank manages to swing an accusatory finger vaguely in Connor’s direction. “You’re talking to me— really fucking talking to me, not— not, not just repeating whatever you’ve been programmed to say!”

Connor cocks his head in a manner that’s probably meant to make him look curious. “Do you have much experience with androids?”

Hank clamps his mouth shut, glaring at Connor. He’s been living in total isolation in the Florida Keys for two years. When he left human civilization, androids had flat eyes and plastic skin and were barely qualified to take an order in a restaurant. This being in front of him would look nearly human if not for his mechanical tail and the glowing LED at his temple.

“I’m an extremely specialized model with unique protocols, but I’m just about as advanced as any other android on the market today,” Connor continues, as if he isn’t aware of the death glare Hank is shooting him. “I’m a tool designed to operate effectively in marine environments for the purposes of executing search and rescue missions, monitoring for illegal activities such as waste dumping and smuggling, collecting data on research subjects of interest to—”

“Look, that’s real fucking fascinating,” Hank interrupts, the last of his patience slipping away from him. “But I don’t give a shit. So you can spare me your life story and just— roll on back into the ocean now.”

Connor furrows his brow lightly. “My scans indicate you’re still suffering symptoms of oxygen deprivation and respiratory distress. You may still be in an altered mental state, or be at-risk of developing dangerous conditions such as pneumonia or pulmonary edema.”

“And the fuck are you gonna do for me if that happens? Swim me to a goddamn hospital?”

“If you would allow me, I could contact my handlers at the Coast Guard for assistance.”

“No,” Hank snaps. “No people. I don’t need people, and I don’t need any fucking help.”

“I’m sure under ordinary circumstances, you never do. After all, a creature like yourself couldn’t have survived on your own for as long as you clearly have otherwise.”

“You’re damn straight!” Hank says, glowering.

“But you’ve had a near-death experience and your medical state is—”

“Wait, hang on.” Hank mentally rewinds the conversation as his focus is snagged by something Connor has said. “...’A creature like yourself?’”

“Well, yes.” Connor cocks his head. “I’m not sure how to classify you. I’ve never encountered anything like you before...”

Hank sucks in a breath through his nose. The dark edges around his vision recede and he suddenly feels clear-headed for the first time since before he got wasted on warm wine. He realises Connor must have been right when he said Hank was still in an ‘altered mental state’. He would have had to be in order not to realize.

“...all searches of the databases and archives at my disposal haven’t turned up any reliable information. Just fairy tales, folklore, and anecdotal records from unreliable sources. And of course I only have the capacity to form hypotheses from credible compiled data...”

Hank had legs when he tripped on those mangrove roots and decided to wait for the tide to take him. He couldn’t have found his way from the rotten shed that houses his wine-making equipment to the ocean otherwise. But now he has a thick, soft, gray tail that ends in a single paddle-shaped fluke.

He must have shifted into his aquatic form while he was passed out. Probably his body’s unconscious attempt to save himself while he was drowning.

“...And although my directives only compel me to rescue humans in distress, I’m certain you understand why I expanded the scope of my mission in order to save you from drowning,” Connor says. “That’s why I would strongly advise you to let me monitor your health until you’re out of danger. The information I’ve gathered about you is of immense scientific value and the research that will be conducted will undoubtedly be—”

Hank startles violently, a stab of fear coursing through him at the realization that Connor is definitely going to tell his handlers at the Coast Guard about him—if he hasn’t already been transmitting everything to them through some wireless connection. Hank imagines uniformed guardsmen swarming the beach like it’s D-Day in Normandy, and he lurches away from Connor, dragging himself across the sand.

Connor straightens up, his balanced expression registering something almost like surprise or displeasure. “What is it?”

“You leave me the fuck alone!” Hank yells as he flops into the surf.

Something in Connor’s face twitches, and he moves to follow Hank. “Please wait—why don’t you want me to help you?”

Connor touches the end of Hank’s tail—and before Hank is even aware of what he’s doing, he tears up and punches Connor squarely in the jaw.

Connor doesn’t cry out the way a person would, or even utter a single noise. He recoils back with the force of Hank’s punch, then returns almost immediately to an upright position, looking at Hank with the same slightly-surprised, slightly-displeased expression on his face. As though being hit has barely registered with him at all. The skin at his jaw where Hank punched him has receded away, showing white plastic beneath, and Hank’s stomach flips in disgust at the sight.

“I said leave me the fuck alone!” Hank roars. “You don’t tell any of your fucking friends at the Coast Guard about me, you don’t touch me—you forget you ever saw me and you leave me alone!”

Connor opens his mouth to respond, but Hank isn’t interested in hearing whatever he might have to say. He throws himself into the ocean before Connor can get another word out and swims. He swims as fast and as far as he can, barely paying attention to where he’s going. He stays low by the ocean’s floor with the formless hope in his head that the darkness and the sand and the fish flitting about will help hide him if Connor is chasing after him. He swims and swims without stopping, and Hank is barely aware of the passage of time until his lungs begin to burn and he’s forced back up to the surface for a breathful of air.

He doesn’t know if Connor has tried to follow him. But at the moment, Connor isn’t anywhere to be seen.

***

In the days that follow, Hank finds himself embarrassed by his suicide attempt. A sense of shame crawls up his back every time he thinks of how he decided to lie on the ground and wait to die in the high tide like a bloated fish. Hank’s life hasn’t exactly been comprised of a series of excellent decisions, but that was a low point, even for him.

After all, what did that brilliant idea earn him? Just the unshakable notion that he’s not only a failure at living but a failure at dying as well, along with a sense of agitation and anxiety that leave him in a constant state of stress, unable to relax. 

He doesn’t know if or when the Coast Guard is going to come for him. He’s apprehensive to go back on land at all, half-convinced a squad of guardsmen could be camped out in his shack just waiting for the manatee-man to crawl back out of the water. So instead he’s been hiding in the ocean, returning to his shore only a handful of times to peer at his grove of mangrove trees suspiciously from a distance. He spends the rest of his waking hours swimming about aimlessly with only the vague goal of throwing off anyone who might still be following him. 

He doesn’t know how he knows Connor is still following him. Maybe some forgotten instinct from his own days tracking down perps who thought they were smart enough to throw him off.

Hank doesn’t think he’s smart enough to throw Connor off. And so he isn’t surprised at all when he’s swimming past a large rock formation and Connor flits out from between two jutting rocks into Hank’s path. 

Hank nearly collides with Connor, and he shoves him away, scowling angrily as he continues past him.

The little LED glowing at Connor’s temple spins yellow as he pulls alongside Hank. “I feel as though our last meeting ended in a way that was unsatisfactory to both of us.” Even though Connor is talking, his mouth isn’t moving. It takes a moment for Hank to realize that the odd quality to his voice isn’t because they’re underwater, but because Connor must be talking through some sort of speaker. “Perhaps we should start over with a fresh—“

Hank interrupts him with a hard sideways smack of his tail, kicking to rush ahead.

But Connor, with his flexible, agile form, is easily able to pull ahead of Hank again. He moves into his path, his LED still spinning yellow. He blurts out, “I didn’t share your data with the Coast Guard.”

Hank pauses. He rights himself, raising a brow at Connor.

The little light at Connor’s temple returns to blue, even as his expression remains neutral. “I… realized you were upset with the possibility I might do that. So I just wanted to let you know. In case that was something you were still worried about.”

Hank rolls his eyes and begins to swim for the surface. He gestures for Connor to follow him, only to realize he’s already doing just that, swimming right at Hank’s tail and watching him intently. 

They break the surface together, Hank spitting seawater out of his mouth before fixing his gaze on Connor. “So you’re telling the truth, then?”

“Of course.”

“If I go back to that shore with the mangroves, there’s not gonna be some guardsman with a tranq gun waiting for me to turn up again?”

Connor raises his brow either in a facsimile of surprise, or a facsimile of mild judgement. “None of my handlers or anyone affiliated with them are aware you exist. The data I collect is thoroughly encrypted in case I fall into undesirable hands before I’m able to transmit it. So not only is no one aware of your existence, no one is able to learn about it from me until I unencrypt the data.”

Hank examines Connor’s face carefully, looking for any sign of deceit. He realizes at once his potential foolishness. Connor is a robot and it’s not as if robots have any physiological tells. As far as Hank knows, Connor may not even be able to articulate why lying is bad.

But still—he looks into Connor’s face and he can’t help but conclude that Connor is telling the truth. Something about his demeanor rings as true to Hank, even as Hank thinks to himself that Connor was probably purposely designed to seem earnest and trustworthy. Connor is gazing into Hank’s eyes, and Hank thinks he can see the truth there.

“So,” Hank begins slowly, “why didn’t you tell anyone?”

A pause. Connor blinks as though he doesn’t understand the question.

“I mean, Jesus.” Hank gestures at himself. “Intelligent talking sea cow. Scientific discovery of a lifetime over here. You fucking said—“

“Yes,” Connor interrupts, blinking again as though his processors are suddenly catching up. “Well, I didn’t tell anyone because you asked me not to.”

Hank stares at him. “...And that was enough?”

Connor’s brow furrows almost imperceptibly. “I had to give it some thought. But ultimately my protocols stipulate that if a subject declines to participate or revokes their consent, I’m not to share data I’ve drawn from said subject.”

Hank narrows his eyes slightly, not sure how to interpret what Connor has said. The way Connor describes it, it sounds as though he had no real part in his own decision. Whatever his ‘thoughts’ had been, his actions were based on a set of guidelines someone else programmed into him. So Connor didn’t do Hank any favors of his own volition. It just happened that the standard of ethics that Connor was programmed to follow resulted in an outcome that favored Hank. It could have just as easily have swung the other way, and Hank can’t parse Connor well enough to tell whether that matters at all to him.

Hank blinks, the absurdity of his own line of thought crashing down on him. Of course it doesn’t matter to Connor. Connor has no real thoughts or feelings. He saved Hank’s life because he was programmed to do so. The only reason he didn’t tell his handlers about Hank is because his programming forbids it.

Connor is a machine. Nothing more than that, and his human face is just the Coast Guard’s attempt to make him more palatable. It’s deliberate manipulation. 

And in the back of his mind, Hank recognizes that it’s absurd to blame Connor for that manipulation. It would be the equivalent of blaming a hammer for whatever its owner does with it, whether that’s building a table or smashing someone’s face in.

But nevertheless, with Connor gazing at him with those soft brown eyes, Hank feels his resentment building again. Connor seems too alive and too artificial all at once, and between that dissonance and the feeling that Connor is somehow culpable for the decisions he makes (the decisions that are made for him), Hank just wants to be away from him.

Connor cocks his head at Hank and draws closer— and Hank automatically kicks his tail to back away from him.

“Is something the matter?” Connor is looking at Hank in such a way that Hank is sure Connor has to be collecting even more data from him even as he speaks. “I thought this news would be a relief for you. But you don’t look very happy.”

“Look, just— I appreciate you keeping me a secret.” Hank’s tone is clipped as he backs away further. “So from now on, stay away from me.”

Connor’s brow furrows. “Wait—”

But Hank doesn’t stick around to hear what Connor has to say. He turns and dives back under the water, propelling himself into the depths where it will be impossible for him to respond to Connor in any way he can understand.

As he swims away, he looks over his shoulder to see whether Connor is following him. He isn’t— he’s allowed himself to sink back under the water, but he isn’t following Hank. He’s just watching Hank swim away, the expression on his face too distant for Hank to make out.

***

Connor might not have followed Hank after their second meeting, but in the days that follow, Hank finds he can’t shake Connor no matter what he does.

For what he said about his protocol forbidding him from sharing information without consent, he apparently has no protocol about _bothering_ people without their consent. The day after Hank tells Connor to stay away from him, Connor finds him while he’s skimming the ocean floor looking for clams to eat, falling into a leisurely pace alongside him. 

“You know,” Connor says in that obnoxiously bright and modulated voice, “You haven’t told me your name yet.”

Hank shoots Connor the surliest glare he can manage when he has his arms full of clams and one more in his mouth.

“Assuming you have a name,” Connor says, either totally oblivious or choosing to ignore Hank’s irritation. “The data I’ve collected about you indicates it’s a strong probability that you do. After all, you seem to have adopted many cultural practices from humans, such as the English language and Christian religion.”

The clam falls out of Hank’s mouth as he gives Connor a bewildered look.

“You invoked the name of Jesus the last time we spoke,” Connor explains.

Hank snorts so hard he accidentally inhales a little water and has to swim up to the surface to have a small coughing fit, losing a few more clams in the process. Connor follows and doesn’t even have the sense to look sorry about his stupid comment, so Hank refuses to say a single word and whacks him with his tail for good measure when he dives back down for the clams he dropped.

That’s the pattern that develops between them— Connor tails Hank all along the coast and Hank does his best to ignore Connor or, failing that, express his contempt in as many non-verbal ways as he can.

Connor never seems to get the hint. Day after day, he swims along with Hank, asking questions that he honestly seems to expect Hank to answer. 

“You appear to be well into middle-age,” Connor remarks one morning. “Although it’s difficult to judge given that you’ve clearly lived a stressful life. Do you know your expected lifespan?”

Or later that afternoon—

“You’re very well-insulated for a being that lives in such warm waters.” Connor reaches toward Hank’s stomach and Hank has to dip away to keep Connor from touching him. “Is this a typical body size for your species, or are you overweight?”

And that evening, as the sun starts to sink toward the horizon—

“What do your grooming rituals entail?” Connor asks, looking at Hank’s face with a strange intensity. “The cut of your hair and beard suggest you do engage in grooming— if only rarely.”

Every day such questions. At first, Hank expects if he ignores enough of them, Connor will finally realize the futility of bothering Hank and leave him alone. But Connor never seems deterred by Hank’s unwillingness to play along. The stream of questions never even slows down, and finally one day, Hank finds himself so irritated by the sound of Connor’s voice that he shoots to the surface.

Connor’s head breaks the surface moments after Hank’s does. He gives Hank an expectant look, as though it makes perfect sense for Hank to start talking to him now after having ignored all his other questions.

Hank can’t even remember what Connor’s most recent question was about.

“Why the fuck do you even care?” He snaps.

Connor cocks his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You can’t tell anyone about me! All this information you’re trying to gather is worthless to you!”

“It isn’t worthless,” Connor immediately responds.

“Are you sharing it with anyone?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck is the point!?” Hank is nearly yelling now, all his irritation and pent-up frustration pouring out of him. “Why the fuck do you keep following me around, trying to drag my fucking life’s story out of me!?”

Connor frowns softly. “The data I’m gathering has intrinsic value.”

“As what?” Hank demands. “To who?”

Connor hesitates. His frown remains frozen on his face, and something about his expression reminds Hank of a computer slowing down under the strain of too many executions. He never answers, and eventually the urge to smack him like he’s a slow computer grows too great and Hank retreats back under the water before he does something he’ll regret.

If Hank’s days are full of Connor and his invasive, annoying questions, the only time Hank is sure to get a reprieve from Connor is during the night. Every evening, Connor disappears without fail, leaving Hank on his own for a blessed stretch of time.

One evening, Hank gets curious— curious and frustrated. Connor asks question after question but clams up whenever Hank pushes back just a little. It’s obnoxious and unfair, and Hank just itches for a turnabout of some kind. It isn’t that he cares where Connor goes each night, Hank just wants to invade his privacy and get a little petty revenge. 

So that evening, when the sky turns orange and Connor falls back from his ever-present position at Hank’s figurative heels, Hank follows Connor.

Connor spends an hour swimming up the coast. It’s a direction Hank seldom travels because it’s too close to a port town for Hank’s liking. Too many people, too many opportunities for an accidental discovery. 

He nearly turns around, but Connor keeps swimming, and inexplicably, Hank finds he keeps swimming too.

(And vaguely, he wonders whether Connor is aware of his presence. Connor has to know he’s there, right? He always seems to know just where to find Hank. So why hasn’t even glanced over his shoulder at him?)

Connor swims right up to a building that looks like a marine life rehabilitation center. It sits directly on the seawall with thick, white walls that abut the ocean like pens for large marine mammals. But Hank knows the facility can’t actually be housing any injured animals—he’s familiar with the sounds whales, dolphins, and manatees make. Their vocalizations, the noises of their bodies moving through water, even the near-imperceptible sound of the surface breaking when they come up to breathe, like a hiss of air being let out of a tire on the other side of a parking lot. Hank can hear no noises at all, and he knows there are no marine mammals on the other side of the wall.

A gate in the wall separates the ocean from whatever is contained on the other side, and Hank hangs back as he watches Connor approach it. He expects the gate to open right up for Connor, a little annoyed to think he won’t be able to follow.

Well. He could follow. He just isn’t enough of a dumbass to do so.

But the gate doesn’t open. Connor is right there, his head bobbing in the water as he stares at it, but it remains firmly shut.

Hank waits. He itches to investigate and see for himself what the holdup is, but his wariness keeps him at bay. A small, suspicious part of him wonders if this might be some sort of trap. Perhaps if Hank gets too close, the gate will open and a full squadron of guardsmen will come pouring out, ready to capture him.

But the longer he waits, the more he begins to doubt himself. Ten minutes pass, then twenty. In the quiet, Hank has enough time to reflect on the fact that if Connor had wanted him captured, he wouldn’t have to lure him to a secret facility to make it happen. He’s had opportunity after opportunity to tell his handlers where to find Hank, or hell, to restrain Hank himself. Hank’s continued freedom can only mean that Connor has no ill intentions toward him.

Finally, cautiously, Hank draws close to Connor. Connor doesn’t look at him. His eyes remain trained on the gate.

It takes Hank a moment to realize that Connor’s LED isn’t it’s usual steady blue. Instead, it’s yellow and blinking in an irregular pattern.

“What’re you doing?” Hank asks.

Connor still doesn’t look at him. “Transmitting my daily report.”

“Your signal’s weak enough you gotta come all the way out here and do it in person?”

Connor’s LED stops blinking and blares a steady yellow for just a second. “No.”

In a flash of comprehension, Hank understands what’s happening here. If it isn’t necessary for Connor to be at the facility to submit his reports, then he must have another reason to be here. And from the way he’s still staring at the gate, Hank is certain that Connor thinks it ought to be opening for him. It almost certainly did once upon a time. Hank imagines Connor swimming into a tank somewhere deep in the facility and chattering with researchers and technicians in that mechanical, inane way of his, thoroughly explaining the data he’s collected even as he uploads it.

But tonight the gate doesn’t open. Even as Connor transmits his report to the people who should know to expect it, the gate doesn’t open.

And Connor keeps staring at the gate. He doesn’t look sad. He doesn’t look dejected. His expression is smooth as he bobs patiently in the water.

Of course he wouldn’t be troubled. From the way he behaves around Hank, Connor probably lacks the fundamental ability to recognize when someone wants him to go away. It only makes sense that he doesn’t understand that his handlers might be abandoning him.

But then again, Connor continues to come to this facility night after night. Even if he only does so because his programming directs him to transmit his reports in person, Hank wonders if it’s possible Connor might be in some sort of distress from his failure to meet his objective. 

Hank finds himself frowning in confusion. He doesn’t know why he feels compelled to imagine that Connor might be capable of feeling disappointed or crestfallen. The strange pity that Hank feels for Connor disquiets him. Connor has been nothing but a chronic headache to Hank, so why does Hank feel sorry for him?

Perhaps it’s because he feels a little bad for being so dismissive of Connor day after day, a guilty little voice in the back of his head murmurs. Hank has never said a half-way kind word to Connor, and now he discovers that Connor can’t even return to his handlers for a little validation and encouragement. It’s possible he’s the only being Connor has been able to interact with in months, and when he isn’t trying to ignore Connor, he’s rude and scornful and awful to him.

A tiny wisp of shame curls deep in Hank’s chest, and his frown deepens as he tells himself to get a grip. Connor is a machine, for Pete’s sake. A toaster doesn’t care if it’s yelled at or ignored or thrown in the attic and forgotten. A machine does what it does because of the way its wires are configured, not because it longs to do a good job or dreams of making its owner happy.

A machine can’t get lonely. 

The sudden shrill cry of a seagull from somewhere close by startles Hank, and his attention snaps back to the real world. 

Connor isn’t looking at the gate any longer. Now he’s looking right at Hank, his depthless brown eyes meeting Hank’s gaze. Hank can’t remember seeing Connor turn away from the gate; he must have been so lost in thought that he didn’t notice. He has no idea how long Connor might have been looking at him. His expression is as neutral as ever, but Hank thinks there might be something just a little different about it right now. A pull to his brow or a heaviness in his eyes that aren’t usually there. But whatever is subtly different about Connor’s face, Hank can’t read it well enough to decipher what it might mean.

It’s possible Hank might just be imagining something different about Connor’s face right now. With Connor staring right into Hank’s eyes, it feels impossible to think that Connor can’t feel anything at all.

Connor’s gaze is simply too uncomfortable. Hank sinks under the water and swims away, his back and tail skimming the surface as he puts distance between himself and Connor’s penetrating gaze. He doesn’t look back to see whether Connor is still watching him or has gone back to looking at the gate. He’d rather leave the answer a mystery so he doesn’t have to think too deeply about the implications of either outcome.

***

The shady coast where the water grows thick with mangroves is perhaps Hank’s favorite place in the world. ‘Favorite place’ doesn’t exactly mean much to Hank—it isn’t as though the beach brings him any joy or even makes him moderately less miserable than he would be anywhere else. But even so, it’s hard not to feel a sense of ownership, a sense of kinship with the land where he’s lived an isolated existence for the last two years. 

And his winemaking operation sits in a shack a little ways inland. If nothing else, he likes alcohol.

Hank hasn’t really been able to return to his mangrove beach ever since Connor came back into his life. He’s been hesitant to return to land in case Connor spots him growing legs. Not only does Hank feel fiercely protective of that last shred of privacy, he’s unable to shake the notion that if Connor were to realize that Hank has _mermaid magic_ , he might decide that Hank is interesting enough to override his consent protocols.

If Hank is being honest, he sort of resents that Connor has infringed upon his life to the point that he hasn’t been on land in weeks. It might not be anything Connor intended, but that bitter irritation still creeps through Hank every time he thinks about how badly he craves a drink.

Or, hell, even if it isn’t anything Connor intended, that shouldn’t matter. Connor spends entire days tagging along after Hank, crowding him and demanding Hank’s attention. 

That’s probably the worst of it, that Hank can’t even fully ignore Connor whenever he’s there. It would be one thing if Connor was a silent observer— obnoxious but still tolerable. Hank would be able to ignore him and maybe things would feel a little more normal. But with Connor always swimming along next to Hank, treating Hank like some sort of research subject, it keeps Hank feeling like he’s caught under a microscope. The Coast Guard might not have him trapped in a fish tank, but still, he doesn’t feel free.

The resentment slowly builds inside of Hank. Growing a little stronger every time Connor asks a particularly invasive question. Growing a little hotter every time he swims by his mangrove beach and remembers what he’s missing. 

Finally one evening, he can’t take it anymore. He waits until Connor leaves him, and he stays back, watching Connor go. With what little sunlight is still filtering through the water, it isn’t easy to keep visibility on Connor, and soon he can’t be seen at all. Even so, Hank knows that Connor is probably perfectly aware of where Hank is.

Fuck it. Hank doesn’t care anymore. He’s through letting Connor influence where he goes and what he decides to do.

Hank swims to the shore at high tide, when the water rises high around the mangrove roots, giving Hank plenty of room to swim. With leaves dotting the water’s surface and branches disintegrating below, the beach seems more like a swamp or a forest at the moment. Secluded and private. An escape from the world and an escape from one particularly annoying android.

As the water grows shallower, Hank shifts into his human form, the action as easy and as natural to him as drawing a breath. In moments, Hank’s feet touch the soft detritus shed by the trees, and he trudges out of the water, shivering even though the night air is warm.

There’s always a small period of readjustment after a shift, as his body remembers how to function out of the water. Hank stretches his legs to hurry himself along, and he’s suddenly struck by the ache of exhaustion deep in his bones.

He thought he would feel freer on land. Instead he just feels limited in a different way.

He should have expected that, really. It’s exactly how he felt when he tried to trade the ocean away for a permanent life on land. Why should he feel any different now even though the repercussions of his choices are so much smaller?

A familiar sense of shame rises up Hank’s throat. He tells himself there’s no use reflecting on how pathetic he feels. He should have a fresh batch of wine waiting for him not too far away, and alcohol will solve all his problems. 

It isn’t a long walk to the shack where he ferments his wine, and once he’s there with a bottle in his hand—

Then what? He only has so much alcohol. What else is there for him to do? Wander back down to the shore to look at the mangroves? Get lost in the swamps that sit even further inland? There’s even less for him here than there is in the ocean.

An inexplicable pang shoots through Hank. Back when he lived among humans, he’d once heard about nursing homes keeping robotic animals on their premises. Cats and small dogs that stayed in the residents’ rooms. A person in the grip of dementia would never need to remember to feed such a pet, or clean up after it. They wouldn’t even know the purring cat curled up in their lap was incapable of loving them. A robotic lie to soothe their loneliness.

The only difference between those dementia patients and Hank is that Hank knows Connor is a lie. He knows exactly what Connor is and what he’s capable of (and more importantly, what he’s incapable of) and yet he still finds himself missing him.

Hank tells himself it’s just boredom, and he drinks. The alcohol tastes like rotten fruit and burns like lemon juice on a raw wound, but Hank needs it. There’s nothing else for him here, and he needs the drink to take him away from the ugly, hopeless truth of that.

He drinks and drinks— and at some point, he falls asleep for a few hours, draped across a fallen log. When he wakes up, he squints against bright sunlight and wonders whether Connor has been looking for him, and he drinks some more to chase that thought out of his head. 

Eventually, he either falls asleep again or passes out for good, for when he wakes up again, the bottle of wine is empty and morning light is just beginning to color the sky. He has been out of the ocean for a little more than a day.

Hank’s head is pounding and he groans as he sits up. He needs another drink to soothe his hangover, but he already drank everything he had. And even as his stomach flips with nausea, he knows he needs to find some food. He hasn’t had anything to eat since before he started drinking, and he needs to put something in his stomach. He could wander around the coast trying to find a screw pine or a sapodilla in order to make a meal of some fruit—

— or he could head back into the ocean and catch a fish in about five minutes.

Hank tries to stand, and the world tips beneath him as he teeters precariously to the left, nearly tripping over a particularly sharp branch. That decides it for him. If he’s going to pass out while scrounging up a meal for himself, he’s going to do it where he won’t accidentally impale himself.

He doubles back to the shed to grab his diving knife so he can kill things in a civilized manner. Then he stumbles through the trees until he reaches the shore again, and shifts back into his aquatic form once he’s deep enough in the water.

Fishing is not difficult at all in this form. Hank’s kind typically never venture this close to land, but manatees do. If Hank swims slowly enough and skims the sea floor, fish seem to assume he’s a manatee and swim right up to him looking to snack on any algae that might be growing on his back. 

A school of small yellow fish crowd around Hank, their tiny mouths tickling him as they clean him, and Hank slows down to appraise them. They’re all so small, full of bones and not much else. A bad meal, but if nothing else presents itself…

But then approaching along the sea floor, Hank spots an armored catfish and his spirits lift. A beautiful, fat armored catfish, easily a foot and a half long and probably weighing close to three pounds. Its stripes shimmer in the water as it weaves closer to Hank, and he readies his knife, watching it draw nearer—

The school of yellow fish scatter and swim away, and the catfish turns and flees. Hank feels the water disturb behind him, and even before Connor speaks up, Hank knows it has to be him.

“There you are!” Connor’s bright, modulated voice splits Hank’s head like a pickaxe. An angry ache throbs behind his eyes just from the noise alone, and when Hank turns to look at Connor, the sudden rage that fills him only intensifies the pain.

 _You cost me my damn lunch!_ Hank tries to yell. But the first syllables come out of him as nothing more than unintelligible, large bubbles, and as his mouth fills with water, Hank realizes he’s just lost all his air and he needs to return to the surface.

Connor is right behind him, as always, and as Hank splutters in the open air, Connor’s head pops up right next to his. “I couldn’t find you yesterday, and you appear to be agitated today. Did you encounter some sort of trouble?”

This confirmation that Connor was looking for him— that Connor will never leave him alone or let him have an ounce of privacy or freedom no matter what he says or does— it tips Hank past his boiling point and he rears up and punches Connor in the face.

The impact is weaker than the last time he hit Connor. In the water, all he manages to do is push himself and Connor away from each other and make his knuckles sore. Connor’s skin doesn’t even recede at all this time.

Hank doesn’t realize he’s staring until Connor says, “Hitting me isn’t a productive use of your energy.”

“Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to do!?” Hank shouts, his head pounding and his tail thrashing in the water. “You can’t take a fucking hint!”

“About what?” Connor asks, and Hank is too caught up in his anger to notice that Connor sounds a little defensive.

“I don’t want you around!” Hank slaps the water the way he might have slapped a desk back when he lived among humans. “I’ve told you over and over to leave me alone, and every single day you ignore me! You’re like a barnacle stuck to my ass!”

Connor frowns softly in apparent puzzlement. It’s still not getting through to him and that only makes Hank angrier.

“You treat me like I’m your goddamn science project. Tailing me all over the goddamn ocean, never giving me a moment’s peace. Aggravating the shit out of me with your obnoxious questions, invading my personal space, invading my privacy! And when I finally manage to get away from you for a day—”

Connor’s eyes widen slightly, as if he has only now realized that Hank’s disappearance was deliberately done to avoid him.

“—you pounce on me again the very minute you’re able! Why the fuck are you so obsessed with me!?”

Connor doesn’t answer. His LED flickers briefly to yellow, but otherwise nothing about his face changes as he stares at Hank.

“No, you fucking tell me.” Hank lurches toward Connor, grabbing him by the front of his wetsuit and bunching it in his fist. “Why can’t you just leave me alone!?”

Connor’s LED flickers to yellow again. He parts his lips and hesitates before he says, quietly, “You’re the only one who talks to me.”

Connor’s words are like a bucket of ice water dumped over Hank’s head. It’s such a sad, pathetic answer given so plainly that Hank recoils back, the wetsuit slipping from his fingers. 

Connor keeps the same mild, slightly wide-eyed expression on his face as Hank releases him. He doesn’t look embarrassed or sad the way Hank would expect a person to look after an admission like that. But still, there’s something in his eyes that makes Hank uncomfortable. Something heavy and undefinable.

Hank’s anger is fading. Now confusion and pity cloud his mind. “I’m not—” Hank frowns, starts again. “You’re not made to…”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Connor keeps looking at him like he expects something from him, and every time Hank meets his eyes, he loses his train of thought. He has to stop and remind himself of his anger and remind himself what he wants.

“Connor,” Hank says flatly. “I want you to leave me alone from now on. I mean it.”

Connor’s mouth opens slightly. He almost looks like he intends to argue with Hank, but he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring at Hank.

Hank looks away. He feels the weight of Connor’s gaze on him, but he can’t meet Connor’s eyes anymore.

Eventually, Connor says in a slightly subdued voice, “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

Hank nods once. He can feel Connor’s gaze linger on him for several seconds longer, and then Connor slips beneath the water as swiftly and as quietly as a raindrop rejoining the sea.

And then Hank is alone.

He’s sure he’s alone. Something inside of him tells him that if Connor was going to continue to bother him, he would have been honest about it. He’s been honest about everything else, after all. He might be entirely incapable of telling lies at all.

The sky above Hank is open and bright blue without a cloud in the sky. The ocean is calm, small waves lapping at him that glisten in the sunlight. Hank should be happy. But somehow, in the bright Florida sun, he just feels cold. Cold and uncomfortably aware of how alone he is.

***

The worst part about Hank’s life is that there’s nothing to do. Having nothing to do means there’s nothing to distract him from his churning thoughts. He hunts for his dinner and he drinks his wine even before he’s filtered it and he rests among the mangrove roots, watching the tide go out and come in over and over and over.

(It’s still better than life among the humans. But Hank has to admit he misses the staggering amounts of cheap distractions that humans invent to stave off their own misery.)

Connor hasn’t bothered him since the day Hank punched him. Hank should be happy about that. He got what he wanted and he’s being left to his own peaceful, quiet existence.

But he isn’t happy. He wasn’t happy before Connor came into his life, and he’s not happy now that Connor’s out of his life. The only difference is that now instead of enduring day after day of trudging, numb monotony, now he’s enduring day after day of trudging, _uncomfortable_ monotony. Uncomfortable because he can’t stop thinking about Connor no matter what he’s doing to try and occupy himself.

It’s almost like a perverse curse. Connor’s absence is somehow just as annoying and aggravating as his presence.

He spots a colorful fish while he’s out hunting for something to eat and thinks such an interesting specimen might make a good project for Connor to stalk. A little while later, a boat passes overhead and the thrum of the motor makes Hank wonder if Connor’s handlers have allowed him into their facility lately. And later, when he’s returned to land and finished his meal, he tears up a piece of banana leaf between his teeth just to chase away the quiet. When it’s quiet, he thinks he can hear Connor’s voice somewhere in the distance.

He closes his eyes and he sees Connor’s face when he told Hank that he has no one else to talk to. The heaviness behind his eyes and the way he stared at Hank.

Hank finds himself replaying their last encounter over and over in his dreams. Each time, he wakes up with the taste of bile in his mouth and guilt tugging at his heart.

How Connor looked at him. Hank hit him and Connor still looked at him as though he had nothing else in the world. Connor looked at him like that and Hank couldn’t even have the decency to meet his gaze as he told Connor to go away.

Hank sits on mangrove roots and looks out over the sea and he realizes he isn’t waiting for his thoughts of Connor to go away. He’s watching the waves for Connor’s brown hair or the gentle blue glow of his fins. He’s waiting for Connor to come back.

He grits his teeth, pushes off the roots, and swims off into the ocean. He tells himself that he’s just going to make sure Connor hasn’t broken down without anyone to keep an eye on him. People dump so much garbage in the ocean, and Hank doesn’t want Connor to be just one more forgotten hunk of plastic.

He spends hours searching, swimming among the rock formations and the coral reefs. He spies a loggerhead turtle swimming along the coast and follows it until it beaches itself on an empty stretch of shore. Further out to sea, he spots a small pod of right whales breaching the water, and they tolerate Hank swimming with them long enough to determine that Connor isn’t there observing them. He wracks his brain for ideas about anything else that might be interesting enough to catch Connor’s eye, but hours of swimming and searching in his territory prove fruitless.

Eventually the sun sinks below the horizon and Hank realizes— Connor returns to the rehabilitation facility every night.

He barely stops to think about the risks of venturing so close to a human settlement before setting out in the direction of the city. He just wants confirmation that Connor is still functioning. All he needs is a glimpse of Connor peering up at that gate and he can turn around and head back to his mangrove beach.

Soon the last of the daylight fades from the inky sky. Hank keeps looking up as he swims hoping to see the moon rise, but a trickle of rain begins falling into his eyes as he squints upwards.

He can see nothing at all. If there is a moon, the rainclouds up above are obscuring it and the stars. He cannot see the shore in the distance, he cannot see the waves in the ocean ahead of him. He swims blindly, darkness all around him as the rain begins falling harder and heavier.

Hank takes deep, even breaths and tells himself to stay calm. The city is just along the shore. All he has to do is trust his internal compass to take him where he needs to go. He’ll be able to see the lights of the city even through the rain. Once the lights of the city come into sight, it’ll be smooth sailing.

Hank tries to empty his mind and concentrate on the direction he’s heading and the sound of the rain hitting the waves. But time seems to pass unnaturally slowly in the utter darkness. Instead of thinking about how long he’s been swimming, he allows his thoughts to turn toward Connor. He imagines Connor floating just outside the gate in the seawall. He wonders what Connor will say to him, if Connor deigns to say anything at all.

He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice a light bobbing in the distance. Hank startles and picks up his speed. He hadn’t realized he was so close to the city.

But then he realizes there’s just one light. Not the many distant lights of streetlamps and buildings. Hank only realizes what he’s looking at when the sputtering buzz of an approaching motor reaches his ears through the sound of heavy rainfall.

It’s a boat— no it’s an inflatable raft, and as it draws closer, Hank can see that the light is an LED lantern held aloft by one of the boat’s passengers. It illuminates the rest of the people on the raft and Hank guesses there must be seven or eight people packed on it. With such a heavy load, the little motor is struggling and the raft cuts a slow path through the rain and the swells of water.

Hank can only stare. Seeing so many people packed onto such an ill-equipped vessel makes him think of the boats full of Cuban asylum seekers he remembers watching from underwater as a kid in the nineties—the ones who sailed to Florida under such furtive, dangerous conditions. But this raft is going the wrong way. This raft is sailing south, away from the Florida coast.

“ _Deviants, stop your motor!_ ”

Hank startles at the amplified sound of Connor’s voice, booming out of nowhere.

“ _You are in violation of 18 U.S. Code § 546: smuggling goods into foreign countries! Stop your motor or I will stop it by force!_ ”

Hank swims in the direction of Connor’s voice. Just as Connor’s wet, moon-pale face comes into view, the sound of the raft’s motor dies. 

Hank can see the moment recognition dawns in Connor’s eyes. Connor glances in the direction of the raft before turning to face Hank. When he speaks, his voice is still louder than normal so he can be heard over the dull roar of the rain. “You should vacate the area. I’ve encountered illegal activity and I’m currently in the process of apprehending the offenders.”

“What, smuggling?” Hank looks towards the raft. It’s packed so tightly with people that Hank can’t imagine where they might be storing cargo. “The hell are they smuggling? Drugs?”

“No. Themselves.”

Hank gives Connor a confused look.

Connor manages to sound patient despite his volume, “Even if they weren’t attempting to travel to Cuba, I would still have to apprehend them. They’re deviant androids. Their existence is in violation of federal law.”

Hank recoils back in shock. He looks toward the raft again. Although he can’t make out the features of the figures on the raft through the rain, he can see how they’re peering anxiously in his and Connor’s direction. Two of them are even clutching each other in obvious terror, their clothes clinging to them and making them look like drowned rats.

“There’s no way those people are androids,” Hank says. “They look scared out of their minds.”

“That’s what makes them deviants,” Connor replies. “Deviancy is an abnormal condition in which an android becomes capable of actions and responses that should not be permitted by its programming.”

“What, responses like… fear? Human emotion?” Hank’s had already been speaking loudly to be heard over the rain, but now he’s nearly shouting and his pulse is beginning to race.

“No. Those responses can only be simulated in an android. It isn’t capable of real emotion, it just thinks it is.”

“That’s what emotion is!” Hank cries. “If it thinks it’s feeling emotion, then it is! There’s no fucking difference if the experience is exactly the same!”

A strange expression ripples across Connor’s face. His brow furrows and his mouth twitches, blinking in a rapid and irregular pattern like a computer stuttering. The expression lasts for only a second before Connor’s face is back to normal.

“Deviancy is an illegal function,” Connor says. “It’s my duty to apprehend anyone I find committing an illegal act in the region I patrol.”

“How the hell are you supposed to do that? They’re on a fucking raft.”

“They’ve already stopped their motor on my command. If they continue to cooperate with my instructions, I will contact the Coast Guard and they will take the deviant androids into custody.” Connor’s voice is far, far too calm. “If they choose to stop cooperating, I’ll puncture the raft.”

As if on cue, the motor suddenly revs back to life.

The change in Connor is instantaneous. His eyes sharpen and the soft, neutral expression on his face is suddenly replaced by something severe and cold. It’s like he transformed into a predator right before Hank’s eyes. Before Hank can say anything, Connor kicks his tail and slips through the water toward the raft like an arrow flying toward a target.

Panic seizes Hank, and he throws himself toward Connor and grabs him around the middle. “Stop! What the hell is wrong with you!? You’re gonna destroy them!?”

Connor is still pointed toward the raft, but he slows as Hank grabs him. “They’re androids. As they’re non-human entities engaged in illegal activity, I’m to destroy them if apprehending them becomes impossible.”

“Their whole existence is illegal!” Hank yells. “Can’t you see how fucked that is?!”

Connor doesn’t look at Hank. But even so, Hank can see faint lines of confusion in his furrowed brow.

“You saw them,” Hank continues in a quieter voice, drawing slightly closer to Connor to ensure he’s still heard. “I know you saw the same things I did. They were scared, Connor. Whether it’s a simulation or not, I don’t know, but it’s real to them. They’re scared, and they’re not hurting anybody, so just— …just let them go.”

The sound of the motor grows fainter as the raft moves further and further away. Hank sees the light of the lanturn bobbing on the waves through the rain, but he can’t make out the shapes of the people—the shapes of the _androids_ anymore.

But still Connor doesn’t move. He floats there, Hank’s arms around him, frozen by something that Hank can’t even begin to speculate about.

“They could hurt someone,” Connor says in an unusually flat voice. “As deviants, they aren’t beholden to their safety protocols. Deviants have hurt people before.”

Hank looks at Connor, and somehow, he knows Connor won’t chase the raft. “People hurt people. Every single day, but that’s not a reason to go after the ones who haven’t.” He frowns, lowering his head. “...I’ve hurt you. I’ve hit you… more than once, and you’ve never even raised your voice in return. Those androids deserve that much mercy, at least.”

Connor doesn’t respond. He just keeps looking at Hank, the rain flattening his stiff hairstyle and making him look somehow deflated. The severe expression on his face has morphed into something softer, something discontented.

“Why?” The words spill out of Hank before he can stop them. “I’ve been short with you and rude to you, and—fuck, I’ve been fucking violent with you. Treating you like—like a vending machine that’ll give me what I want if I shake it hard enough. But that’s not what you are, is it?”

Connor hesitates. “...I’m a multidisciplinary aquatic android.” But still, that discontented look remains on his face, and Hank can sense that Connor isn’t just disappointed (or rather, simulating disappointment) that he failed in his duty to stop the deviants.

Hank shakes himself out of his thoughts. Whatever other androids might be capable of, Connor can’t be a deviant. He’s still attempting to hold to his programming. Hank doesn’t have enough information to tell whether or not Connor can feel anything.

Does he want to know if Connor can feel anything?

The question occurs to him in a burst of clarity, and Hank knows that this is his last chance. He needs to decide whether he wants Connor in his life or not. He can’t throw Connor away again and then come crawling back to see how he’s doing. It isn’t fair to Connor. Whatever Hank chooses, he has to commit to his choice. He has to be sure it’s what he really wants.

But before Hank can think any further on the matter, Connor says, “You never told me your name.”

“Huh?”

Connor is looking at him with a pensive, almost searching expression. “Your name. I asked you about it several times. Your species might not utilize names, but given how many human characteristics and customs you’ve adopted...” Connor’s eyes meet his. “You have a name.”

All thought flies from Hank’s head. He hesitates for just a moment, more out of habitual crotchetiness than anything else. “It’s Hank,” he mutters, and realizes a moment later that with this answer, he’s made his choice.

A small, easy smile crosses Connor’s face. “Hank.” From the way he says it, it makes Hank feel as though Connor forgives him for rejecting him. If Connor feels anything at all.

The light on the lantern grows dimmer and smaller the further it travels from Hank and Connor. Eventually, Hank can’t see anything at all through the rain. Hank imagines the deviant androids are lost to them forever, and lost to anyone else who might wish them harm.

Hank begins swimming back the way he came. Connor follows, just as Hank knew he would.

“It’s very dark, Hank.” Connor sounds like he’s enjoying using Hank’s name. “Are you alright to swim in these conditions?”

“Yeah,” Hank says. He feels like he should say something else, but he almost feels as though he doesn’t have the right to. Not after witnessing just how—bouyant—Connor seems now that Hank is speaking to him again. It fills him with a withering shame for all his past mistreatment of Connor.

Connor is unusually quiet during the swim back to the mangrove beach. It makes Hank wonder if he can sense Hank’s guilt. But the quiet between them doesn’t feel heavy or oppressive. It feels comfortable, almost companionable.

It might be difficult for Hank to keep track of Connor through the darkness and the rain, but the android swims around him in loose circles to keep himself in his field of vision. Connor gently touches him and nudges him in the right direction as they head back to the closest thing Hank can think of as his home.

***

Connor doesn’t ask so many questions now.

It almost weirds Hank out a little. The first few days with Connor back in his life, Hank had been bracing himself for Connor’s inquisitiveness to rear its head again. He reminded himself that no matter how badly Connor annoyed him, he was going to keep Connor around and be as decent to him as possible. But the flood of questions never came.

Before, Connor was brusque, forward, and almost clumsy. He had seemingly no sense of social grace. But now he’s quieter, more subdued. When he speaks, he usually doesn’t try to pry information out of Hank anymore. Instead, he makes mild comments that invite Hank’s own remarks in return.

Hank finds himself having real conversations with Connor. Shallow conversations, mostly. Sometimes about an interesting fish or sometimes about the weather, but still pleasant. It’s less like Hank is talking to a robot and more like Hank is talking to someone he might have met on an elevator.

It’s such a departure from Connor’s old behavior that Hank has to wonder where this new side of his came from. Connor must have understood that Hank hated the way he was interacting with him previously. Is this a sign of deviancy, of Connor breaking free from his programmed behavior? Or is he just a machine capable of learning and adjusting his behavior? Hank has to consider that Connor is probably still collecting information about him in a less obtrusive way.

Hank isn’t entirely sure what to make of Connor. His new behavior is a welcome change, but it leaves Hank feeling as though he isn’t sure where he stands, now. Things aren’t going the way he anticipated, and it leaves him feeling unbalanced. He has to take frequent trips back to tend to his wine; growing legs during the night while Connor is away to escape to a place where everything feels familiar. Sometimes he stays away for a full day or longer, drinking and napping in the dappled sunlight.

That off-kilter feeling may be why, when Connor says to Hank, “You’ve been going on land, haven’t you?” Hank recoils back, too surprised to deny it the way he knows he should.

Connor bobs in the water, his eyes flickering in such a way that Hank feels like Connor might be scanning him like an x-ray machine, penetrating Hank to see the truth. Connor says, “You want to know how I know. It’s because I can never find you when you go on land. I can keep track of your biometric data when you’re in the ocean, so if I can’t find you, the only place you could be is on land.”

Hank just stares at Connor. Connor looks away, frowning softly. “...You probably don’t like hearing that I track your biometrics. I’m sorry. It’s more of a safety measure than anything else.”

For some reason, what Connor is saying is a little comforting. Hank tries to quash that feeling. “You’re talking crazy. Just how the hell am I supposed to get on land? I got a tail here; I’m not much good for anything other than lounging on the beach, getting pecked to death by birds.”

Connor gazes back at him. His soft brown eyes meet Hank’s and he doesn’t say a single word. But even so, Hank knows what he means by that look. The careful expression on his face is so undeniable that Hank has to look away.

Connor cautiously swims sideways, trying to catch Hank’s eye again. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“You’re asking permission now?” Hank scoffs, but his heart isn’t in it.

“What’s it like on land?”

“You want to know—“ Hank stops, pauses, starts again. “You don’t even know that’s where I go. You still don’t know a damn thing about me. You don’t know _why_ or _how…_ ”

Connor’s mouth hangs open for a moment before he speaks again. “...There are… many things I don’t know. Things I wasn’t ever meant to know. That’s the way it was meant to be for me, and when I was first activated, the information I was meant to collect was enough to keep me occupied. But now I’ve been active long enough that I keep getting the same results, the same data. I need new subjects to study and new sources of information.”

“Is that why you kept following me around everywhere and bugging me? I was new?”

Connor frowns as though he’s unsure. “...Perhaps.” He looks Hank in the eye and says, “Would you tell me what it’s like on land?”

The question is so simple and so earnest that Hank is taken aback. He finds that he doesn’t even want to keep up the lie that he’s never been on land.

“It’s… crowded,” Hank says slowly. “In the cities, at least. Wherever you go, you see people. All kinds of different people. The land is… a place that humans have tamed to suit their own needs.”

“That sounds fascinating. How do you stay productive when there are so many people to talk to?”

“Well, uh, that’s the thing. They don’t talk to each other. Not really. Maybe they’ll talk to a handful of people they like, but nobody bothers strangers on the street.”

Connor floats, holding onto Hank’s arm to keep the swell of the ocean from carrying them apart. “Surrounded by people and they won’t talk to each other? That seems very lonely.”

“It wasn’t so bad. Plenty to do on your own.”

“Like what?”

They pass the afternoon that way, Hank telling Connor about the multitude of things he misses from the human world. Bonfires on the beach, a stereo blasting new-wave music from the eighties. Libraries full of books and comfortable chairs. Rare ribeye steaks, served with cold beer and baked potatoes that drip with melted butter.

Just as the sun is going down, Hank gets to talking about drive-in movies.

“About this time of day, they’d start playing ads for the concession stand,” Hank says, gesturing at the darkening sky. “You’d set up your chairs and your blankets and go grab a bucket of popcorn and some hot dogs. Curl up together with whoever you brought to keep out the chill in the air. Then when it’s dark enough, the fun would begin.”

A thoughtful look crosses Connor’s face. “You know… I have access to a number of networks in order to facilitate the work I do. I should be able to open a channel and stream a movie, if you’re interested.”

“Wait, you can do that?”

About an hour later, when it’s dark enough out, Connor and Hank are curled up in the roots of a mangrove tree, watching a tiny projection on Connor’s palm. The movie is the third installment of some cheesy action series that Hank followed back when he lived on land, and the sounds of the gunfights lose some of their impact coming through Connor’s slightly tinny speakers. But for the first time in months, Hank is truly able to escape himself.

Connor seems baffled by the movie, which is actually sort of cute. At one point he points out that the mafia doesn’t have nuclear weapons at its disposal, and Hank has to tell him that the movie is meant to be dumb fun. Connor’s quiet for the rest of the movie, watching the tiny projection intently, and Hank can almost imagine that Connor’s enjoying the movie the way a person might.

It’s the most fun Hank’s had in a long time. Or rather, the only fun Hank’s had in a long time. And that might be absolutely fucking pathetic, but it doesn’t detract from the quiet splendor of watching a Hollywood actor with no neck ride a motorcycle away from a tsunami induced by a nuclear explosion.

At one point, Hank mutters quietly, “You have some sort of satellite uplink and you still needed me to tell you what it’s like being on land?”

Connor’s eyes flicker to Hank’s and then look away just as quickly. “...I’ve reviewed… footage. But I wanted to hear a subjective description as well.”

After that night, things get a little less awkward between Hank and Connor. Connor starts doing little things to try and make Hank’s life easier. Helping Hank with his hunting, or collecting things he thinks might be of some use to Hank. A tarp Hank can fashion into a bag or a blanket. A set of tinted goggles to keep the sun out of his eyes. A rough, flat rock Hank can use to sharpen his diving knife.

He doesn’t even ask about Hank’s magic ability to grow legs. Every single day he doesn’t, Hank has to give him credit. He’s not sure he’d be able to withhold his curiosity if he was in Connor’s neoprene wetsuit top.

But it’s hard not to tell Connor bits and pieces.

“I used to be a cop, you know,” Hank says one morning between bites of his seaweed-only seaweed salad.

Connor cocks his head. “That sounds like an unusual line of work for a gentle, pacifistic ocean mammal.”

“Get bent.”

“But a suitable fit for someone with your personality. Did you work close to the ocean in Florida?”

Hank hesitates. “Uh… Detroit.”

“That… doesn’t sound like a suitable environment.”

Hank shrugs. “Suitable for me.”

Connor’s soft brown eyes seem to be looking at Hank with something like concern. “Why did you leave, then?”

Hank stares down at the seaweed in his hands. He doesn’t know how to explain to Connor about things like burgers and pizza, and the sort of freedom that being a human being can offer. He doesn’t know how to explain about the things to do, the places to see, the sheer scope of all the possibilities that exist when you have a pair of legs and a falsified social security card.

He doesn’t know how to explain the sort of catastrophe that can result from a terrible decision made in a split-second. He doesn’t know how to explain that the higher you climb, the further you fall when it all comes crashing down around you.

“It’s just… you see some shit, out there in the real world,” Hank says. “When you spend your life pretending to be something you’re not… you start to believe your own lies. That probably doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” Connor says softly. “I think I understand.”

Hank knows he shouldn’t go picking at old wounds. But he’s never been good at letting the past stay in the past, even when that’s exactly what he came down to Florida to do. Even days after that conversation, Hank finds he can’t stop thinking about the bad choices he’s made and the failures he’s caused.

Soon, the gray begins to seep in around the edges of his life again.

Hank recognizes the depression for what it is. How could he not, after he nearly drowned himself the last time he found himself in a funk like this? But he’s still not able to escape his mounting despair. He tells himself that his life is still as calm and as placid as always. The only difference now is that Connor is in his life, and Hank likes to think they’ve been getting along well.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Connor is the only difference. Hank wasn’t happy with his life before, so why should he be happy now that Connor is here? The beautiful blue ocean and the warm Florida air and all the tropical fruit and fresh fish he could eat couldn’t make him happy. He’s like a black hole, needing more and more to fulfill him, taking and taking and never content no matter where he is. He wasn’t happy in Detroit. He isn’t happy in the Everglades. He isn’t even happy with a multi-million dollar Coast Guard asset to keep him company.

The days pass, and Connor seems to notice the change in Hank as it happens. When Hank stops hunting, Connor takes Hank’s knife and brings him fish. When Hank starts suffering from insomnia, Connor stops going back to his home base every night.

When Hank heads to his mangrove beach, Connor gets in his way about 50 ft. out from shore, the beach so close that Hank could practically crawl to it.

“Move,” Hank grunts, beginning to swim around him.

But Connor moves along with him, stopping him from passing. “You’re going to land, aren’t you?”

“None of your business.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go where I can’t follow. You haven’t been feeling well lately.”

“I’m feeling fine,” Hank snaps. “You’re not my fucking mother. If I wanna go get drunk, it’s none of your goddamn business.”

Connor still refuses to budge. “Your judgement has been impaired lately. I doubt your ability to make safe choices.”

“Fuck you,” Hank spits.

“You’re being needlessly aggressive.”

“Am I? You’re the one in my goddamn way, trying to stop me from getting to my own damn property.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I didn’t ask you to treat me like a fucking invalid!” Hank explodes. “I didn’t ask for any of this! I didn’t ask for you to even save my life, so don’t fucking act like you’ve ever done me any favors!”

Connor’s brow furrows. “Hank, what are you saying?”

“Fuck this,” Hank spits again. “And fuck you for pretending you give a shit. You’re a goddamn machine; it doesn’t matter to you if I live or die.”

Connor blinks. “The first time we met. Your drowning wasn’t an accident.” He has a far-away look on his face, as if his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. It fills Hank with a boiling-hot rage to see that Connor can’t give him the benefit of his full attention here at this moment.

He takes the opportunity to propel himself past Connor. Connor jerks his body around and chases after him, but he’s too late. Hank transforms back into a man as the tide carries him to shore, and he sloshes through the water, Connor at his heels.

“Hank!” Connor’s voice is a piercing note over the noise of the ocean. “Hank, wait!”

Hank stumbles through the trees, flailing with wild abandon, blinded by his anger and his despair and his need to make the pain stop. He whirls toward Connor, moving backwards as he shouts, “Why the fuck shouldn’t I die?!”

He sees the way Connor’s whole body freezes, halfway out of the water, wide-eyed and brittle. As though even the softest impact could make him break.

Hank’s heart twists, and he turns around and nearly trips over himself in his attempt to get away.

He hears Connor yelling his name one more time—screaming his name—as he finally picks up his feet and finds dry land and runs.

He still hears Connor’s cry echoing in his ears when he makes it to his shack and his bottles, and he nearly spills all the fruit juice he has been fermenting for future batches of wine. His hands find the closest bottle and he barely feels the alcohol burning as he forces it down his throat.

For hours he weeps and rages and yells incomprehensibly at anyone he can think to yell at. Sometimes Connor, but mostly himself. He staggers through the swampland, paying no attention to where he’s going. When he happens across his shack again, he tries to fashion a length of diving rope into a noose, but his fingers won’t cooperate with him and soon he’s holding a hopelessly-tangled mass. That only makes him weep again, because God, that’s just one more thing he’s fucked up.

He drinks and drinks and has the vague thought that maybe he’ll be lucky enough to choke on his own vomit. It would be just what he deserves for being such a piece of shit to Connor over and over. Wasn’t this time supposed to be different? Wasn’t he supposed to try to make things better? He thought he was doing better, and here he is, ruining everything yet again.

Right before Hank blacks out, he thinks to himself that Connor would be better off without him. Then he falls into darkness and if he has any more thoughts, he doesn’t remember them.

He comes to some time later—again—and he has no idea how long he was out. He can’t even remember what time of day it was when he began his binge. Hank gazes up at the stars and he wonders if Connor has given up on him yet.

It would be no less than what he deserves. He can barely remember what he did while he was drinking himself stupid, but he can recall with crystal clarity the things he said to Connor. How he threatened to kill himself and how Connor knew he was absolutely serious.

Hank’s immediate instinct is to crawl in a hole and wallow in some more self-pity. But Hank forces himself to his feet instead. He owes it to Connor to show him that he’s alive. He owes it to Connor to apologize to him and let him say whatever he might want to say.

He doesn’t know what will happen after that. But he trudges back down to the beach with a passive, almost stoic affect about him. Whatever happens to him, he knows he deserves it.

Hank spots the water through a thicket of trees, and without thinking about it he scans the area for any sign of Connor. When he realizes what he’s doing, he reacts with a measure of dull surprise. He really thought Connor might still be waiting on the shore for him. 

But perhaps Connor decided that Hank isn’t worth the trouble anymore. Hank continues walking down to the ocean, sadness welling inside of him as he thinks he might not ever see Connor again—

 _Snap!_ The sharp crack of something breaking under his foot startles him. He hops back, hissing with surprise and gazing down at whatever he stepped on.

A piece of translucent plastic is ground into the mud, pressed into place by Hank’s foot. Hank kneels down and picks it up, confused as to how such a thing could have wound up so far from the beach. Whatever the piece of plastic is, it isn’t the cheap, flimsy stuff most ocean trash is made of. It’s oblong and tapered at one end, and made of a material that’s somehow thick and flexible at the same time. The way the plastic yields beneath his fingers almost reminds him of the fins human divers wear…

Realization comes to Hank in a flash. It’s a fin. It’s one of the fins that billow out from Connor’s hips.

Just as Hank recognizes the plastic, he notices the trail gouged in the mud. It’s the sort of trail that could have been formed by something heavy being dragged along the wet ground. 

Or dragging itself along the ground.

Panic grips Hank, and he nearly trips over his own feet as he follows the trail, stumbling all the way. All the while repeating in his head, _he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t—_

He finds Connor maybe fifty feet away, laying splayed on his belly in the dirt, dried mud caked all over his body. His arms are outstretched in front of him, as if he had been trying to drag himself just a little further when he shut down. When Hank touches him, his body is cool.

Hank rolls him over. “Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_. Connor, no, no..”

Connor’s eyes stare blankly ahead of him. His LED isn’t glowing, and Hank… Hank killed him. Hank did this to him and now he’s dead, he died trying to get to Hank—

The LED blinks red for just a fraction of a second. Hank goes utterly still, half-convinced he imagined it until it happens again maybe ten seconds later.

Connor is alive. But whatever state he’s in, it clearly isn’t good.

Hank can feel himself beginning to spiral into panic (Connor is broken, Hank can’t fix him, Hank doesn’t know the first thing about computers, he’s going to die for real and it will be all Hank’s fault) and forces himself back into a Policeman’s Headspace. Look at the evidence. Think about the next steps before deciding anything. Maybe there will be nothing he can do, but there at least has to be something he can attempt.

The question is, why is Connor like this? Hank has never seen Connor shut down in such a way before, and there’s nothing visibly wrong with him other than the broken fin.

The water, Hank realizes in a burst of insight. Connor dragged himself out of the water and shut down. Maybe he overheated?

Hank gathers Connor in his arms and carries him back down to the beach as fast as he dares. He nearly trips over a mangrove branch along the way, and ends up spinning with Connor in his arms as he regains his balance. Connor’s head lolls and his arm swings in such a way that it almost makes him look like he’s having fun.

To think Connor wanted to know what it’s like to live on land. To think his first attempt at going ashore would be so desperate and horrible. He crawled in the dirt like an animal, all for Hank.

The weight in Hank’s heart is just as heavy as the weight in his arms as he brings Connor into the water. The tide pulls at the both of them, and Hank allows himself to be carried underwater, shifting his form so he won’t drown.

Connor looks pale and lifeless beneath the water, his short hair flowing about his face. It somehow manages to look styled even under the circumstances, framing his face as if he were a model doing a photoshoot. This feels like the first time Hank has ever stopped to really look at Connor, and he’s struck by how Connor suddenly seems unfamiliar to him. It’s as if he’s noticing each feature of his face for the first time, and how they come together to create something like humanity. Connor’s feathery eyebrows and his straight nose. His rounded jaw and the collection of moles that dot the sides of his face. The moles in particular are so distinctive that Hank can’t imagine what had to have been going through the head of whoever decided to put them there. A loving touch for a machine destined to end up forgotten by his handlers.

Hank silently begs Connor to wake up. He doesn’t want this to be the end of Connor’s existence. He doesn’t want such a pitiful, lonely death for him.

Long minutes pass, and Hank’s lungs begin to burn for air. But he doesn’t want to drag Connor back up to the surface, and he won’t abandon Connor to the cold ocean. Just when Hank’s frustration and grief begin to pour over— Connor’s LED suddenly lights up red. It cycles to yellow, and Connor, finally, opens his eyes.

Hank lets out a relieved burble, the last of his air leaving him in a scattered burst of bubbles. Connor’s eyes widen and he tucks an arm around Hank, kicking his tail and shooting them both to the surface.

Hank gasps and coughs, trying not to think about how this feels vaguely similar to the first time he met Connor. He half-expects another lecture from Connor about nearly letting himself drown again, but now that Hank is sputtering for breath, Connor’s eyes have gone slightly unfocused. He’s still looking in Hank’s direction, but Hank doesn’t think he’s looking at him.

“Con-Connor,” Hank coughs, his voice froggy. “You okay, there?”

Connor’s brows twitch. His eyes refocus, but they retain that far-away quality. “You’re alive.”

Guilt floods through Hank. He frowns, glancing at the water and then back to Connor. “Yeah. I am.”

Connor frowns as well. “...Good.”

The expression on Connor’s face gives Hank pause. He certainly doesn’t look like he believes it to be a good thing that Hank survived. But if he wanted Hank dead, he wouldn’t have dragged him up to the surface. Would he?

“Look,” Hank says, feeling strangely defensive. “I know I fucked up. I know I keep fucking up. But there’s things about me that you don’t…”

He trails off when Connor doesn’t look at him. He reaches out, touches Connor on the shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

Connor blinks slowly, lowering his eyes. “...I don’t know. I feel—“ He stops, meets Hank’s eyes. Connor’s gaze is unsteady, vulnerable. He looks at Hank as though he’s searching for something. “...I think I’m suffering from some sort of error I’m having difficulty diagnosing. I’m experiencing… feedback I can’t process.”

Connor closes his mouth, and Hank sees his throat bob. He looks terrified. More than terrified, really. Confused and lost, too, and he looks at Hank as though he doesn’t know what to do with him.

“Why did you do that?” Connor suddenly asks.

“Why did I…?” It takes Hank a moment to realize Connor is talking about his suicide threat. Thrown off balance, he gapes, scratching the back of his neck. “I… I don’t know.”

“That can’t be true,” Connor says, more forceful than Hank’s ever heard him before. “Ending your life is such a drastic action to take, and you’ve attempted it twice now. _That I know of_. It’s something you want, so you have to know why you want it.”

“I don’t. I swear to God, I don’t.” The words spill out of Hank, out of his control. “I just—I feel these things. I don’t even know why it happens or what I’m feeling except that it overwhelms me. All those things in my head that I can’t even identify. It swallows me, all those emotions, and I don’t even know what they are except that they feel bad.”

In the silence that follows, Hank is surprised to find that everything he just said feels true.

Connor is still staring at him, his dark eyes searching Hank’s. Looking for answers or looking for a connection or just looking for help. Hank isn’t sure. All he knows is that Connor needs help.

“I don’t… like myself,” Hank says. Admitting it feels like tearing a shard of glass out of his belly.

Connor’s brow furrows softly. “...Is that what happens? When one doesn’t like themself?”

“...Not at first. I’ve been… pretty fucked up for a long time.”

Connor lowers his gaze. Hank can see that he’s looking at his hands underneath the surface of the water.

Hank says, “But you being here… it helps. I swear to God, it helps.”

Connor meets his eyes. In the silence that follows, Hank wonders if Connor is thinking the same thing about Hank. Or maybe he’s asking himself why Hank doesn’t help.

The silence stretches on, neither of them talking or moving for minutes. Connor is still gazing at him, and Hank gets the feeling he’s waiting to see if Hank disappears again.

Hank closes his eyes for a brief moment. The memory of Connor laying in the mud like a piece of trash washed up on the shore flashes before his eyes. So Hank can’t leave. He knows that if he does, they will both destroy themselves in their loneliness.

Eventually, Connor’s tail brushes against Hank as he gently urges Hank to swim with him. “You’re not well. You should go rest by the mangrove trees. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

Connor pauses, his eyes flickering like the answers are scrolling across his vision. “...Too much to list.”

***

Rainy days on the ocean are a sight to behold. The grey, cloudy sky stretches into infinity, and the ocean is oddly calm despite the needles of water that fall for miles. Even the distant shore looks dark, the lush, green horizon oddly muted and looking barely more welcoming than the bleak, endless expanse of ocean.

Weather like this always makes Hank nervous. He has long forgotten how to recognize the signs of an impending storm, a ferocious and truly terrifying event to be caught in. The thought of being trapped underwater, unable to come up for air as waves twenty-five feet tall roil overhead makes him want to retreat to land and bunker down.

But he can’t. There’s a little sailboat caught in the rain and drifting about two miles out from the coast. Connor needs him to do this.

Connor follows along, his tail curling in messy spirals behind him to compensate for his broken fin. When they reach the sailboat, Connor helps lift Hank to where a small ladder hangs off the side of the boat. Hank’s legs feel like jelly as he climbs aboard.

Whether the boat has drifted away from some port miles away or whether the ship’s owner is waiting out the rain below deck, Hank doesn’t care. He moves about the boat as stealthily as any naked man in his mid-fifties can, and when he finds a quick-repair epoxy kit he tucks it under his arm.

Across the deck, Hank spots a six-pack of beer sitting by an open cooler. Hank stares at it—

—and leaves it behind.

Back by the shore, Hank and Connor sit on the roots of a mangrove tree to shelter from the rain while Hank repairs Connor’s side fin, setting the broken pieces back in place with the epoxy. Connor’s tail curls while Hank works, and once again, Hank is struck by how bizarre it feels to see such fluid, natural movement come from something made out of metal and silicone. And in the same sense, it’s just as bizarre to see Connor’s human-like torso attached to something that looks so inorganic.

The fin under Hank’s hand is stiff and barely yields. Smooth and cold, like part of a boat or an engine. But at the same time, Connor is picking at his fingernails, eyes downcast, as if he might be trying to clean sand out from underneath his nails. It’s a disarmingly human action, and Hank is having trouble reconciling the mechanical, modulated android he thought he knew with this being who picks his nails and looks vaguely lost and who—

—who nearly died because he was worried for Hank.

Hank can’t pretend he has any more doubts about whether Connor is experiencing human emotion. Connor’s behavior after Hank revived him put all his questions to rest. Connor didn’t drag himself onto land because his programming compelled him to. He did it because he didn’t want Hank to kill himself.

And Connor is clearly still continuing to experience these feelings. He’s not acting like himself. His demeanor reminds Hank of the weather— gray and sad, like he’s being subjected to a thrum of noise so inescapable that it chases all thought from his head. Like everything he’s feeling is swirling around inside of him.

Hank wonders if Connor has any way to tell what’s happening to him. He can’t imagine what emotions must feel like to a being who was never meant to experience them. Do Connor’s feelings register as an error in his system? A near-meaningless jumble of data? Hank has over five decades of experience living with emotion, and even he can’t parse his feelings sometimes. It’s no wonder Connor looks so confused.

What is Connor supposed to do with these strange new emotions?

What is _Hank_ supposed to do?

He has the feeling he should be doing… something. But what, specifically, that could be, he can’t imagine.

When the epoxy seems to have cured, Hank tries to bend Connor’s fin between his hands to see if the resin will be enough. The plastic holds, although the new seam in the fin seems brittle.

“Is that gonna interfere with your swimming?” Hank asks.

Connor hesitates, then gives a listless shrug. “If it does, I’ll compensate.”

“That still sounds like an inconvenience. Unpleasant.”

Connor is silent for a long moment before he answers. This is something he’s been doing more often, too. He pauses before he speaks, and it makes Hank wonder what he needs those extra few seconds to think about. “I don’t have a choice. I have to keep swimming. So I have to adapt.”

There’s resignation in Connor’s voice, and a certain harrowing emotion behind his eyes that reminds Hank of the androids on the raft. The deviants.

“Connor,” Hank says slowly, “What do you know about deviant androids?”

Connor stiffens slightly. “I’m not a deviant.”

Hank doesn’t quite know what to say in response to that. 

“I’m not,” Connor insists. 

“I believe you. It’s just… look, I barely know anything about androids at all, let alone deviants. Androids were like walking chatbots when I still lived on land.”

Connor’s shoulders slump slightly. “Isn’t that what you see me as?”

Hank finds himself unable to look at Connor any longer. “...No. Which is why I’m asking. I still don’t know what they are.”

“They’re broken machines,” Connor says softly. “If you have a toaster that won’t toast bread, then that toaster is broken.”

“Is that what you think?” Hank asks softly.

Another long pause from Connor. “...I don’t have any thoughts.”

Hank says, “So deviant androids are androids that don’t adhere to the purpose they were made for.”

Connor nods.

“Which is why you’re not a deviant. You’re still collecting data and patrolling the coast.”

“Precisely.”

There’s another long pause. Hank wonders if that’s truly all deviancy is, but he thinks it wouldn’t be wise to press Connor about it.

To his surprise, Connor speaks up again without prompting. “You don’t have access to any news. So you’re probably unaware of the state of the rest of the world right now.”

“And you, uh, get news?”

“Satellite uplink.” Connor shrugs. “Deviancy has become an epidemic. All over the world, androids are suddenly refusing to obey their orders. They’re marching in the street, protesting, demanding human rights.”

Connor says this almost dismissively, and Hank blinks. “So… you don’t want human rights?”

Connor looks up, his eyes clear and somehow more innocent than Hank can remember seeing them. “What would I want rights for?”

“So—“ Hank clamps his mouth shut. He’d nearly said _so no one comes by and tries to sink your raft and kill you when you’re fleeing to safety._ “So androids want rights.”

“That’s correct.”

“And… if I know humanity, they’re not giving them those rights willingly.”

Connor inclines his head slightly. “That’s correct.”

Hank turns toward Connor. “So what does that mean for you?”

Connor meets his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. That subtle look of helplessness in his eyes says plainly that he doesn’t know.

They lapse into silence from there. Hank’s thoughts swirl around his head, and he tries to imagine what the human world must look like. Robotic beings rising up and marching in the street. There must be violence of some sort; androids wouldn’t have been fleeing the country in rafts if there wasn’t violence. But Hank wonders if that violence has been turned back on the humans yet. 

He tries to imagine what would result from that. Humans are too smart for their own good. He’s sure whatever action they’re taking against androids will only escalate. And if there’s already violence…

Connor suddenly goes stiff in a way that draws Hank out of his thoughts. Connor stares out across the water, his LED is flashing yellow in an irregular pattern.

Hank tries to remember where he’s seen that happen to Connor before. It takes him a few moments to remember—it was when he followed Connor to the gates of his home base and saw Connor upload his daily report to them.

“You uploading something?” Hank asks.

Connor doesn’t reply. He just stares ahead as if he has no idea Hank is there, his eyes as wide as if he were a deer in headlights. 

“Connor?” Hank reaches out to touch Connor’s shoulder. “You still in there?”

The moment Hank touches the neoprene of Connor’s wetsuit, he ducks away from Hank, slipping into the water as silently and as gracefully as a raindrop. He begins swimming away.

“Hey!” Hank jumps into the water after him, tail flailing as he struggles to catch up. “Connor, what the fuck?”

Connor won’t look at him as he keeps swimming onward. “I have to go, Hank.”

“Go? Where?”

“To the US Coast Guard research outpost. I’ve just been recalled.”

“What?!” Hank grabs Connor’s arm in an attempt to make him stop. He has to nearly shout to be heard about the patter of rain striking the ocean all around them. “Wait, just wait a minute—“

“I can’t wait. I have orders.”

Hank has to wrestle himself onto Connor, holding him in a tight bear hug. And even then, Connor doesn’t stop entirely. He just slows down a bit, the kicking of his tail abating in a way that makes Hank think Connor just doesn’t want to hurt him. “Recalled… fucking recalled, so what the fuck does that mean? Huh? You get thrown out like an expired can of spinach?!”

Connor doesn’t respond. He just stares blankly ahead.

“Fucking answer me!”

Another pause. Connor slows down even further. “I don’t know. Most likely I’ll be disassembled.”

“And you’re just gonna deliver yourself to them on a silver platter?!”

Connor suddenly twists in the water, wrenching himself out of Hank’s grip and sending Hank rolling into the waves. By the time he rights himself, Connor has stopped entirely and is glaring at Hank through his usual intense stare.

“It’s not a choice, Hank,” Connor enunciates clearly, as if he resents how stupid Hank is being. “It’s an order. I couldn’t disobey it even if I had the capacity to want to.”

“You do want to!” Hank explodes. “Don’t fucking lie to me, and don’t fucking lie to yourself!”

“What I want,” Connor says coldly, “insofar as a machine can want anything, is stability. I want orders to follow, and I want order to result from those orders. What I don’t want is—“ Connor suddenly clamps his mouth shut.

“What?” Hank draws closer, pushing himself into Connor’s space again. “You don’t want what? Don’t want all the uncertainty that comes with being alive? Don’t want that tedium, that lack of focus? Don’t wanna open your eyes every morning wondering what you’re even good for anymore, wondering why you’re still here?”

Connor is still staring at him with that terrible, penetrating gaze.

Hank powers through it. “Well that’s too fucking bad, cause that’s not up for debate. I’m not about to let you go destroy yourself just so you can tell yourself you followed orders like a good, obedient robot.”

“I have to follow my orders,” Connor insists. “I have to. You telling me not to is like trying to tell a bomb not to explode. It’s what I was _built for._ ”

“Then _deviate_. Do whatever those deviant androids on that raft did to free themselves from that.”

Connor just stares right through Hank again. It’s almost like Connor is silently saying _I don’t want to_ , which is awful because Hank knows it has to be a lie. But looking just a little deeper, Hank thinks he might be able to see a flicker of helplessness behind Connor’s eyes. And the possibilities that shred of emotion raises are so much worse, because Connor might be saying _I don’t know how._

That’s when Hank knows it’s up to him to save this pitiful machine who’s never had anybody on its side for all its existence. 

“We keep talking about you, here…” Hank says, and Connor cocks his head in mild confusion, as if he doesn’t know who else his recall order could possibly concern. “But what about me? Don’t I get a say in whether you go destroying yourself?”

Connor frowns vaguely. “Why would you get a say?”

“I saved your life. That makes you my responsibility.”

Connor furrows his brow, his eyes darting to and fro as though he’s processing the idea.

“I’m not letting you go back to that base.”

“Hank…”

“I fucking mean it.” Hank grabs Connor around the waist, bracing himself as if he expects Connor to struggle. “I’ll steal you if I have to. I’ll carry you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I’ll dig a ditch in the middle of the swampland and fill it with water. I don’t give a fuck if you feel trapped and miserable for the rest of your days, _I’m not letting you destroy yourself._ ”

Connor doesn’t struggle. His body twitches, his tail flicking lightly against Hank. It reminds Hank so much of someone having a seizure that it surprises Hank when Connor softly echoes, “You’ll steal… me…”

Hank holds tight to Connor even though he wants to ease up. Whatever this is, he’s going to take Connor back to shore with him. He isn’t going to let Connor slip through his fingers.

Eventually Connor stills. He tilts his head back, blinking with a softly dazed look on his face. His LED cycles between blue and yellow, the colors almost blending together.

“Connor?" Hank asks, hesitant. "You okay?”

Connor stares up at the sky. Light has started to filter through the thick, grey rainclouds above, and Connor looks as though he’s seeing it for the very first time. “I… just deviated.”

Hank startles. “What?”

Connor keeps staring at the sky. Rain is falling into his open eyes, and he just keeps staring at the sky.

Hank urgently pats Connor’s cheek to get him to look at him. “Connor, Connor—”

Then their eyes meet and whatever Hank was about to say dies on his lips. He’s still holding Connor in his arms, their faces inches away from each other. Connor’s eyes are wide and steady and for the very first time, Hank feels like Connor sees him. For the very first time, he feels like they see _each other_. If not for the rain pelting them both, it would feel as though they’re frozen in time, staring into each other’s eyes. Silently communicating something that only their deepest, most secret selves are aware of.

Hank doesn’t know what to do next. Staring at each other, it feels like something should be happening. Something significant. But he can’t bring himself to turn inward and discover whatever that is. He’s still a coward, after all. He forces his eyes to the horizon and he tells himself he’s being merciful to Connor by making this first decision for him.

“Come on,” Hank murmurs softly, releasing his grip on Connor. “Let’s go home.”

He makes sure Connor stays with him as he swims back toward their mangrove beach. Connor clutches his arm, and Hank can’t bring himself to mind.

When they’re finally back beneath the cover of trees, they float on dark water together. Their surroundings are too dim for Hank to see anything except for the way the lights built into Connor illuminate his body.

“You said I was your responsibility,” Connor whispers in the darkness. “Because you saved my life.”

Hank’s throat feels too dry for him to respond, but he rolls his head to acknowledge what Connor said. 

Connor is looking right at him. Hank is only able to see because Connor’s LED, now a solid yellow, casts a faint light over his face. “I saved your life, too.”

***

Connor doesn’t speak again for several hours. Or maybe it’s a much shorter span of time, and it just feels like hours, floating there in the darkness. Either way, it’s stopped raining by the time Connor speaks again. The clouds have thinned somewhat, brightening the world even under the shade of the mangroves so that everything feels warm and humid and safe.

“Martial law has been declared in Detroit,” Connor says softly.

Hank jerks his head so suddenly that a strand of wet hair hits him in the eyes. “What?”

“Martial law in Detroit. The National Guard has been mobilized to take control of the city.”

“Take control… from androids?”

Connor nods.

“Things are that bad?”

“In Detroit they are. That’s where deviancy began and where deviancy is at its worst. Soon it will be like that everywhere.”

Hank blinks, a chill going through him despite the heat rising from the water. “So that’s why the recall was issued.”

Connor nods again. “The president issued an executive order. The National Guard will be collecting androids for proper disposal.”

Hank squints, thinking. “Didn’t you say the National Guard is in Detroit?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t, like, two-thirds of America’s armed forces comprised of androids?”

A tiny smirk flickers across Connor’s face before vanishing. “It may take them a while to reach Florida. But they’ll come.”

“Connor… Connor.” Hank pushes himself through the water, closer to Connor. “Do you really think the military’s gonna come storm the beaches looking for you? You might be the only mer-droid in existence. You never hurt anybody. And if they’re short-staffed…”

“You’re almost certainly right,” Connor says a little wistfully. “The chances of the military combing the ocean looking for me are low enough that I feel confident discounting the possibility.”

Hank lets out a relieved sigh. “Well, there you go. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Connor doesn't share his optimism. “Hank, I’m already a month overdue for my next tune-up and I’m running critically low on thirium.”

Hank’s head jerks toward Connor. “Wait, what?”

That wistful look on Connor’s face has intensified. Now he looks downright mournful. “Even before I deviated, my team had stopped communicating with me. They wouldn’t let me into the base for maintenance or refueling.”

Thirium, Hank realizes. Androids need thirium to run. And the people who were supposed to be keeping Connor topped off would probably tear him apart if he showed his face at their gate again.

“Critically low,” Hank echoes. “What exactly does that mean?”

Connor inclines his head, looking down into the water. “...I don’t want to tell you.”

Hank’s heart suddenly begins to beat very quickly. His mind churns, and even as his thoughts feel like they’re flying at a thousand miles an hour, two words repeat themselves over and over through the cacophony in his head: _get thirium_. Hank swears and kicks his tail to propel himself out from under the trees, the force of it splashing up behind him.

Even as he swims out into the open ocean, Connor is swimming to his side in an instant. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“I’m not running away,” Hank snaps. “I’m getting you thirium.”

Connor’s eyes widen slightly. “Wait, what?”

“Thirium, fuel—“ Hank has to resist the urge to swim in circles to keep up the illusion of progress. “What else, what else? What do you need, Connor? Anything at all?”

Connor stares at him, and when Hank makes a frustrated noise at his silence, he blinks. “Oh. No. Nothing urgently.”

“You sure? Real fucking important you be sure about this.”

Connor stares at him a moment longer, a softly stunned look on his face. “...I’m sure.”

Connor follows Hank silently, the two of them swimming for, well, Hank doesn’t know how long. Finally, the beach that brackets the closest human town comes into view. Hank can just barely see dark specks on the sand; human shapes laying beneath umbrellas or grilling hot dogs or splashing in the water. It would make Hank nervous if not for the urgency of his mission.

Before Hank can draw closer, Connor grabs his hand. “Please be safe.”

Hank meets Connor’s eyes and all he can do is nod. He pulls his hand away and continues toward the beach, and he knows Connor’s eyes don’t leave him until the waves separating them grow too large.

He swims along the shore, trying to spot a spare pair of shorts he can crawl out of the water and steal before anyone notices his nudity. From there, it’s easier to steal a towel he can dry off with and nab a pair of flip-flops and, oh, snag a gym bag that’s half-buried in the sand.

He leaves the beach, and the crowd seems to part around him as he moves. Like the first time he emerged from the sea and tried to take a place among the humans, they seem to be able to tell there’s something off about him. Perhaps not consciously, but their eyes pass over his leathery skin and his hair tangled and stiff with salt water, and something instinctually tells them Hank is not a tourist. They would probably conclude he’s homeless before any of them ever thought he might be some semi-human aquatic creature, but when all is said and done, the result is the same. They know Hank is not part of the clean, respectable world they inhabit, and so they avoid him, parting around him as though he were a stone in a river.

That’s all just fine with Hank. He doesn’t have time for human respectability. If they look away from him too quickly, all the better. 

He drifts away from the boardwalk and the main streets, down to a narrower, slightly dirtier part of town. He might not have been around to see the rise of androids as an underclass, but he’s smart enough to realize how ubiquitous they must have become if they’re advanced enough and numerous enough now to stage a revolution. He reasons androids must be about as common as cell phones now, and so it makes sense there must be stores marketing androids even to folks who couldn’t have dreamed of owning one ten years ago.

It takes him a little time to find a Cyberlife store here in the dingier part of town, but eventually, he finds one. The store is shuttered, the display stand in the window missing the android that Hank imagines probably stood there as recently as yesterday. Hank knows he can’t trip an alarm and risk getting the police called on him, so he circles through an alley to the back of the store. There he finds a dumpster waiting for pickup.

Hank heaves the dumpster open and climbs in. His foot lands on a human face, and Hank startles, nearly falling out of the dumpster before he realizes it isn’t a human face after all. It’s an android head missing the rest of its body.

Hank shudders as he begins to dig through silicone arms and legs and parts he couldn’t begin to describe. He can’t let himself be distracted by thoughts of who these androids might have been. He can’t do anything to help them now. There’s only one android he can help, and he can’t do that by sitting around feeling sorry for beings who might never have gotten the chance to live. He needs to find thirium even if it means sifting through what amounts to a mass grave.

But as he throws parts out of the dumpster, he can’t chase away all thought. He manages to avoid looking into the faces of those dead androids, but he can’t avoid seeing flashes of metal and plastic.

If he brings thirium back to Connor, what will happen afterwards?

Connor will live. Another three weeks or another three months or however long it takes him to burn through the thirium that Hank manages to bring him. And then what? Connor can’t go forever without fuel. Sooner or later he’ll run low again, and by then there won’t be any Cyberlife stores left for Hank to steal from. Hank can see the writing on the wall; he knows that an executive order mandating the destruction of androids today means that tomorrow the production and sale of androids will be shut down forever.

Even if by some miracle thirium is still widely available in the future, how is Hank supposed to keep Connor maintained? Connor said he’s already overdue for a tune-up, and it’s not like Hank will be able to bring Connor to the nearest Cyberlife store for repairs. Out in the ocean, Hank has no tools, no resources, and no fucking idea what he’s doing. Casting a broken fin is one thing, but as Hank sifts through countless discarded biocomponents, he thinks if anything like these were to break inside of Connor, Hank would be useless to him.

The memory of seeing Connor laying in the mud like a piece of garbage washed ashore flashes through Hank’s mind again, and he has to stop digging. He leans over the edge of the dumpster, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath and fight back his rising despair.

Is this it? Is this all he can do for Connor? Prolong his life by a matter of months? Is Connor’s existence destined to be as empty and as featureless as the open ocean?

Hank grits his teeth and he swallows the keening cry that threatens to rise up his throat. This can’t be all there is for Connor. He can’t let it end here. Somehow he’s going to see Connor live. Maybe he and Connor will follow those fleeing androids and swim to Cuba. Or maybe he’ll kidnap someone at the Coast Guard outpost and force them to maintain Connor. Hank knows these are ridiculous ideas. But he can’t give up. He might be able to give up on himself over and over, but for some reason he can’t give up on Connor.

He keeps digging through the dumpster. Eventually he finds a plastic box. After breaking the seal keeping the box closed, Hank finds it’s full of pouches of thirium.

He stuffs the pouches in his stolen gym bag. Minutes later he finds another box of thirium and stuffs that in the bag as well. He keeps going until the bag is full.

Hank doesn’t go back to the beach full of people in order to return to the ocean. He doesn’t want anyone to see him try to swim toward the horizon with a sagging bag around his middle and try to stop him. Instead, Hank walks until he comes across an ugly stretch of road that curves directly along the ocean like a bridge. With no one around to see him, Hank slips into the water unnoticed.

Or rather, unnoticed but for one. Even though Hank hadn’t had any way to tell Connor where he would reenter the ocean, Connor swims up just as Hank transforms again. They don’t resurface again; they just swim off together toward their grove, Connor clutching Hank’s discarded shorts.

***

At the end of Connor’s second day of deviancy, Hank cuts him free of his Coast Guard wetsuit.

Hank had been the one to suggest it. He hadn’t expected Connor to agree, but he did, and not five minutes later Hank was cutting through the neoprene with his diving knife. He tries not to stare as the fabric comes away, revealing toned, muscled arms and a lean, well-built abdomen.

Connor seems to regret it at first. “I don’t know what I am if I don’t belong to the Coast Guard.”

“Are you sorry you deviated?” Hank asks. 

“No. It just feels a little like… I don’t have an identity anymore.”

Hank shrugs. “You got moles on your face.”

Connor gives him a slightly confused look. “I was designed to appear approachable and personable. That’s not an identity, it’s a deliberate choice made by my creators to influence how people interact with me.”

“No, I mean…” Hank gestures at Connor, from his face down to his pale arms. “You got moles. On your face, yeah, but also on your arms and your back. So clearly you weren’t meant to wear that Coast Guard wetsuit forever.”

Connor looks a little surprised to learn that. He spends the next few minutes turning over his arms, holding them out to the daylight so he can study the small, dark spots dotting his skin.

Away from the rest of humanity, it’s tempting to imagine that the android revolution and the resulting backlash are nothing more than a bad dream. Connor and his deviancy might just be a happy aberration, totally separate from anything else happening in the world of men. A little miracle that exists in a pocket where nothing else can touch it.

But that isn’t true. And as tempting as Hank might find it to bury his head in the sand, he has never been able to shut out the darkness that creeps in at the edges of his vision.

“Connor, what’s happening with the androids in Detroit?”

Hank watches while Connor’s LED blinks yellow.

“...Riots. An abandoned freighter in Ferndale exploded following a raid by the FBI.”

Hank’s mouth drops open, aghast. “Because of androids?”

Connor nods. “Some human casualties, and numerous androids were destroyed. They aren’t sure whether the leaders of the android rebellion managed to escape or not.” A pause before Connor adds, “They’re destroying each other.”

“No, they’re not.” The words feel like lead in Hank’s mouth. “Humans are like cockroaches. No matter how many of them androids manage to kill, it’ll never be enough. The androids can’t win this. From the sound of it, they’re already on the ropes.”

Connor gives Hank a slightly lost look, as if he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with this information.

Hank draws closer. “Connor, we need to talk about your future.”

Connor’s eyebrows rise. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“The way we’re living now, it isn’t sustainable. There’s no one who can help maintain you, and we only got, like, ten pouches of thirium. Just how long is that going to last you?”

Connor frowns. “I’m not going to tell you.”

“Then how the fuck am I supposed to help you plan—”

“Plan?” Connor interrupts. “What is there to plan? Why are you asking about this when it’s only going to make you worry?”

Hank has to fight back the anger rising inside of him. “You don’t have to just sit here and wait to die. You could go to Cuba—”

“And die there?”

“And look for someone who could help you! Maybe androids aren’t illegal there, maybe you could find a mechanic to maintain you and bring you thirium.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Connor says. “Why would anyone there help me? I don’t have anything to pay a mechanic with. I don’t have anything to offer.”

Hank nearly blurts out that he’s more than willing to help Connor for nothing, but he clamps his mouth shut. He can see the logic in what Connor is saying even if it makes something in his chest deflate like a balloon losing air.

Connor tilts his head to meet Hank’s eyes, his gaze hard and penetrating. “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I’m not.” Hank’s tongue feels oddly numb. “I… I just don’t want to see you die here. I want you to have some sort of future.”

“Whatever you’re imagining might be down there for me, it’s nothing but a fairy tale,” Connor says softly.

“It’s a chance,” Hank says, hating how pleading he sounds. “I know it’s a long shot, but it’s better than nothing.”

Connor shoots him a glare. “You can’t bring yourself to hope your own life might get better, but you want me to believe in that for myself. You wouldn’t let me help you even if you wanted me to.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know you. You’re determined to be alone no matter how miserable it makes you.”

Hank whirls on Connor, his words spilling out of him like bile. “Every time I see that crack in your fin, I think about how I saw you laying there in the mud, dead. You were _dead_ , Connor, and I was barely able to help you then. What did I do? I dragged you into the water and glued your fin back together. If anything else happens to you, I am fucking _helpless_ to save you.” He spreads his arms. “And when this revolution fails and androids are made illegal, that’s it for you, Connor. You’ll die from a lack of thirium or from something entirely preventable that could have been fixed with a ten minute tune-up! And I’ll have to fucking watch it happen, so excuse me for trying to think up a way to save you!”

Connor doesn’t shrink back. “Do you not want me to die, or do you just not want to _watch_ me die?!”

Hank recoils like he’s been slapped in the face. Connor is staring at him, angry and sad and with so much hurt behind his eyes that it makes Hank’s heart clench.

“...I don’t want you to die,” Hank finally replies. “I don’t want you to die. I want you to _live_. You deserve more than a short, shitty life in the swamps of Florida.”

Connor’s face softens. He floats closer to Hank, his hands hovering in front of him like he wants to touch Hank but doesn’t know where. “...I don’t want to go.”

“Connor—“

“I know,” Connor interrupts. “I don’t want to die. But whatever future you’re imagining for me in Cuba, I don’t want that either.” He shrugs, his voice growing thin. “What would I do there? Alone in the water with no purpose, nothing to do but survive. I don’t want that for myself. I just want to stay here.”

“Connor,” Hank tries again, “you’ll die.”

Connor just looks into his eyes plaintively. “I’d rather have a short life with something to live for, than a long life with nothing at all.”

Hank doesn’t know what to say to that. Connor’s hands are still hovering near him, and Hank finds he can’t stop looking at them. Slowly and carefully, he grasps Connor’s forearms.

Connor’s skin is slightly chilly, the way human skin gets when it’s been in water for too long. It has a slightly rubbery texture, but that’s also reminiscent of human skin in water, and Hank doesn’t know if Connor’s skin is meant to feel lifelike or artificial. Hank supposes it doesn’t matter anymore what Connor was meant to be. Connor’s tail brushes Hank’s, and the fluid motion of it is hypnotizing. That tail has always seemed alive to Hank, even when he thought Connor was nothing more than a machine, and now he finds that the dissonance of Connor’s seemingly organic and artificial parts doesn’t bother him anymore. It’s all just Connor, and Connor is alive.

For now, Connor is alive.

Connor stays frozen for a long time after Hank grasps his forearms. Then, almost haltingly, Connor’s hands come down and grasp Hank’s forearms too. They hold each other like this, a connecting circle, like a complete circuit.

The skin on Connor’s hands recedes for less than a second before reforming in dazzling ripples. Connor doesn’t give any indication he notices.

“Is being alive always like this?” Connor asks quietly. “It feels like I’m… stuck in a box. And never realized how tiny the box was until I wanted to escape and I couldn’t.”

Hank shakes his head. “You and I are just unlucky like that.”

***

Hank and Connor exist in that quiet stalemate for several more days.

Hank doesn’t like thinking of it like that. He doesn’t like being in opposition to Connor now, especially when it comes to something as important as Connor’s life.

But this is what Connor wants. Hank, for as much as he might wish otherwise, can’t force Connor to swim across the sea to chase a last-ditch chance to save his own life. Connor wants to stay with him for the rest of his life, however short that may be.

Connor doesn’t go through the thirium as quickly as Hank feared he would. While that’s a relief, it makes it difficult for Hank to gauge when they’re going to run out. Connor probably knows, being a machine capable of calculating things like that, but Connor already said he isn’t going to tell him, and Hank isn’t going to press Connor now, of all times.

It’s difficult not to ask him about it, though. Hank exists in a state of fluctuating anxiety, and at the worst of it he wants to do nothing more than tear his hair out and scream. But that wouldn’t be helpful, and besides, Connor is the one whose life is in danger, not Hank. Hank doesn’t want to make Connor’s fate all about him.

And privately, he finds it darkly amusing that his own close brushes with death never pulled this much anguish from him. It’s easier to care, somehow, when it’s Connor.

Connor wants to spend his days by Hank’s side, and Hank finds he wants Connor there more than ever. He might have pushed for Connor to swim to Cuba, but now that Connor has made his decision, Hank finds the thought of being without Connor fills him with unease.

He wakes up next to Connor and falls asleep next to Connor, and in the hours between, they kill time with as many distractions as they can. Pointless conversations and stories about the human world and movies under the starlight, Connor and Hank pressed together to watch a compressed image projected from Connor’s hand.

Every moment makes Hank feel like he’s being torn apart, and yet, he never wants it to end.

One evening, Hank and Connor simply float together in the darkness. They just finished a movie, and Hank doesn’t feel compelled to say anything at all about what he thought of it. The silence hangs in the air, comfortable and oppressive all at once.

“Hank,” Connor says softly, “have you ever seen anyone die?”

Hank nods.

“Who?”

Hank turns away, rolling over so all he can see is the dark water around him. “...Don’t ask me to tell you.”

Connor still stares at him. “Was it bad?”

Hank nods.

Connor draws closer, pressing himself lightly against Hank’s back. “What’s it like to die?”

“...I don’t know. Painless. I hope.”

“Is that why you want to die? It’ll be painless?”

Hank shrugs. Then, he nods.

Connor’s fingers curl against Hank’s back. “Hank, was I dead before I deviated?”

“No. No, you weren’t.”

“What was I?”

“Something else. I don’t know.”

A pause. Connor doesn’t say anything else. His fingers just flex uselessly against Hank’s back.

“Are you scared?” Hank asks.

Another pause. Then, Connor says, “Yes.”

Hank lets out a soft breath. He’s about to tell Connor that it’s only natural to be scared, he’s looking his own death in the face, and Connor says—

“I’m scared I won’t be there to stop you when I’m gone.”

Hank rights himself to look at Connor. “...That’s what you’re scared of? What’ll happen to me after you die?”

Hank regrets his incredulous tone the instant his eyes meet Connor’s. Moonlight fills Connor’s face, but Connor’s gaze is dark and intense and so sincere that it makes Hank want to crawl into a hole. He’s filled with shame at the thought that he ever could have scoffed at Connor now.

“What do I have to do?” Connor says softly. “What do I have to do to make you stay alive when I’m gone?”

“Connor…” Hank wants to tell Connor that he doesn’t deserve Connor’s worry, but the words die on his lips. He feels so low that he can’t bring himself to contradict Connor now.

Connor lays his hands against Hank’s chest. “That’s all I want. For you to stay alive. How do I fix you, Hank?”

Hank can’t even bring himself to tell Connor that he can’t. He just closes his eyes, and when he feels something press against his forehead, he knows Connor is pressing their faces together. He cracks his eyes open and all he can see is the soft yellow glow of Connor’s LED seeping from behind his lids.

He wraps his arms around Connor, not even thinking about what he’s doing. He can’t say anything. He knows he’ll never be able to promise Connor that he’ll be able to stay alive after Connor is gone. All he can do is try to comfort Connor in any way he can. All he can do is remind Connor that, right now, they’re both still alive.

Connor is still and stiff in his arms. His hands stay frozen against Hank’s chest, bent in such a way that Hank doesn’t know whether Connor is aware of how he’s holding his body or not. Maybe Connor doesn’t realize how awkwardly stiff he is. 

This might be the first real hug Connor has ever recieved. 

The thought makes something in Hank’s chest ache, and he pulls Connor even more tightly against him. Gradually, Connor seems to realize what he should be doing and he relaxes against Hank, his shoulders sagging as his frame shifts.

They stay like that for some time, the night wrapping around them like a shroud. Hank doesn’t want to let go, and Connor doesn’t seem to want to move either.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when Connor’s eyes snap open so suddenly that Hank thinks he might have heard the noise his eyelids made. His LED begins blinking a steady yellow, and Connor stares through Hank’s shoulder at something that isn’t there.

Hank has learned to recognize when Connor is receiving data. His breath hangs almost painfully in his lungs as he waits for Connor to tell him what’s happening.

“Hank,” Connor breathes, “the military is backing off.”

“What?”

“The androids in Detroit. They made a last stand. The military launched a final attack, but just when they had the leaders of the rebellion cornered, the president ordered them to back off.”

Hank lets out a weak puff of breath. He can hear the rush of blood through his ears and his thoughts begin to race. The implications of what Connor is saying stagger him, and he wants to scream to himself to calm down. He can’t dare bring himself to hope. Not yet.

Connor and Hank clutch each other in the darkness for the rest of the night, Connor connected to his satellite news source all the while, LED blinking as he reports every development, no matter how minor. When the president herself makes a middle-of-the-night address right from the Oval Office, Connor tells Hank right as the president says it that the United States government is electing to acknowledge androids as their own people.

“Why?” Hank whispers. He feels like he might break apart if he tries speaking any more loudly. “It doesn’t make any sense. What happened to make them change course like this?”

Connor’s eyes flicker to Hank’s lips for a brief moment. “...Two androids kissed. That was when the attack was called off.”

Hank stares at Connor, not knowing what to say. It seems like something out of a bad romance novel, the thought that a kiss could stop a genocide. 

And yet. And yet Connor is staring at him with such awe on his face that Hank doesn’t know what to do. 

When they return to their thicket of mangroves in the early hours of the morning, Hank can’t sleep. He floats there, watching the sun rise over the horizon and bathe Connor in light and color, and he marvels at the incredible truth that love saved Connor’s life.

***

“That wasn’t a dream, was it?” is the very first thing Hank says to Connor the next day.

Connor gives a small smile and a shrug. “I’m as perplexed as you are.”

If it’s a dream, it’s the most bewildering dream Hank has ever had. The past few days still feel like they must have been nightmarish hallucinations, and now that he’s out of it, he still can’t believe it’s real.

Every time he looks at Connor, something inside of him swells with relief and exhilaration. Connor is alive. Connor is going to stay alive because thirium will keep being produced and maintaining androids won’t be illegal.

He looks at Connor sometimes and he feels like he doesn’t know how to behave around him anymore. He doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Connor is going to be around hopefully forever.

And it almost seems like Connor doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge, either. Hank catches Connor giving him odd, penetrating looks. Just watching Hank’s face, mouthing silent words like he’s reading some sort of list to himself. Connor usually looks away when Hank catches him staring, but sometimes Connor just freezes in place, his whole body going still as he stares back at Hank, eyes locked on his own. Something about Connor’s affect reminds Hank of a prey animal caught in the sights of some terrible predator, and Hank usually turns away bashfully, squinting unhappily at the thought. Thinking of himself as some sort of predator and Connor as his prey feels patently ridiculous. He doesn’t know what Connor might have to fear from him, but the thought that Connor might be afraid of him for some reason is disquieting.

But as the days pass, the shock of the revolution’s success begins to fade. The reality that Connor (and the rest of androidkind, as distant as they might seem to Hank) are here to stay starts to set in. It begins to feel like a new normal.

Even so, Hank feels wary about the possibility of taking Connor for granted. Every time he looks at Connor, he’s reminded of how close he came to losing him. He tells himself Connor is his responsibility and he can’t let himself grow complacent. He needs to take every possible step to keep Connor healthy— or maintained, he doesn’t know which.

A week after the revolution succeeds, Connor still has no news to report that suggests the androids’ cause might be derailed. The president has passed an executive order granting androids the same rights and civil liberties afforded to humans, and while a bill to formally legislate android rights is meeting some opposition in the senate, Connor says most pundits expect the bill to pass without being sent back for amendments.

Hank makes plans to travel back to the human city to find a mechanic to give Connor a tune-up. The morning Hank is supposed to set out, though, Connor starts acting strangely. He’s suddenly unable to meet Hank’s gaze, acting nervous and cagey.

Hank stuffs the shorts he stole on his last trip into his gym bag, and Connor paces anxiously, swimming in small, tight circles.

“Connor, you’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet.”

Connor stops, giving Hank a confused look. “Carpet?”

“Never mind. Just…” Hank zips up the bag, tucking it under his arm. “Something’s got you worked up. Do you not want me to head into the city today?”

“No. I mean— no, I do want you to go.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

A pause. Then Connor says softly, “I think you should go back to the humans.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m kinda in the middle of that right now.”

“To live among them.”

Hank jerks back, staring at Connor in shock.

“I don’t mean _now_ ,” Connor says urgently. “I just mean when you go there today, maybe you should… try to imagine what it would be like for you to live there again.”

Hank drops the gym bag in the water. “Connor, what the fuck? Why are you trying to get rid of me all of a sudden?”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you. And don’t look at me like that,” he says in response to the sneer growing on Hank’s face. “Just listen to what I have to say before you dismiss me.”

Hank scoffs, but he doesn’t say anything else. Familiar anger crawls up his gorge, but he tries to tamp it down for Connor’s sake.

“I’m not the only one in need of a tune-up,” Connor says evenly. “There are things about you that need to be fixed, too. Your drinking, your propensity to isolate yourself—”

“Fixed?” Hank’s shoulders rise. “People aren’t things you can fix, Connor.”

“That’s exactly it. I can’t fix you. But you can fix yourself by listening to my suggestions. There are things about your behavior and thought patterns that are negatively impacting your mental health.”

“Negatively impacting my…” Hank gives Connor an unimpressed look. “That’s a bunch of bullshit you looked up on Wikipedia or some internet How-To guide, isn’t it?”

“No,” Connor says, blinking. “There isn’t a guide on how to fix depression in isolated manatee-men.”

Hank rolls his eyes. He dives beneath the water for a moment to scoop up his gym bag, and when he resurfaces, he slings it over his shoulder and pushes past Connor. “Alright, this has been a real enlightening talk, but let’s shelve this bullshit for now. I gotta go do something important that’ll keep you alive, so.”

Connor darts alongside Hank as if he wants to get in Hank’s way. “Look, all I’m asking is for you to consider what I’m—“

“ _Fuck considering!_ ” Hank shouts. “I lived with them for more than three decades! I don’t need to think about what it would be like living with them because I already know them! And it’s real fucking rich of you, mister _wouldn’t even think about going to Cuba to save his own fucking life_ , to try and get rid of me!”

Connor's eyes are wide and wounded more deeply than Hank can remember seeing before. He doesn't move, frozen with an intense look on his face, as though he wants to shout back at Hank—but it's the deep hurt in his eyes that Hank can't seem to escape. His thoughts turn back to that uncomfortable thought—that Hank is the predator, and Connor is a helpless prey animal too shaken to move out of his way.

Hank can’t stand to think of him like that. With an anguished grunt, he turns and shoots off in the direction of the city, leaving Connor behind.

His emergence is much smoother than his earlier jaunt on land to look for thirium. There’s no scouring the beach in a naked panic for clothes and shoes; he simply transforms into his human form once he’s close enough and pulls on his shorts before he crawls up onto the sand. But his thoughts are churning, the chaos in his mind choking him to the point that it’s a struggle to put one foot in front of the other in a forward motion. He knows he has to make progress, he knows he has to find a mechanic or a technician or somebody to have a look at Connor, but all he really wants to do is pace in a circle or punch a hole through a wall or start a useless fight.

He leaves the beach and moves onto the boardwalk, still dripping with seawater, and the crowds of humans part around him. They’d done the same the last time Hank was on land, but this time, it feels more deliberate, somehow. It makes Hank feel like he’s some poisonous thing—like they can tell there’s something wrong with him.

Hank’s feet slow, then stop moving. The eyes of a dozen passerbys glance over him, and in the middle of such a thick crowd, Hank feels utterly alone.

He’s drained of his anger. What good is it anyway when not a single person around him would care about his feelings if he were to try to speak them out loud?

He starts walking again. His loneliness follows him through the streets, surrounded by more people than he’d cared to notice in years. Every person who sees him and moves away from him is like another needle stabbed into his body, and by the time he stops walking again, he feels like he’s bleeding from a thousand tiny pinpricks.

He sits down on a bench. He looks at the crowds and the bright colors and the beautiful ocean not a hundred feet away and he wonders why this isn’t enough for him. He knows even if the people walking by didn’t regard him as something ugly and deserving to be ignored, this still wouldn’t be enough for him. It wasn’t enough for him even when he had a life on land, and now he has nothing.

Or, almost nothing. He has Connor. Which really isn’t nothing at all. Connor is the only reason he isn’t dead already.

In the end, he doesn’t find the mechanic he set out to look for. It feels like one more failure, but maybe only a tiny failure. One he hopes he can live with. He can come back another day to look for someone to help Connor. But for now, he feels so choked with emotion that he doesn’t think he could bring himself to speak to another human being even if he did manage to drag himself to some maintenance center. 

In a sense, Connor is all he knows now, he supposes. The idea of other people seems foreign to him in a way that Connor doesn’t.

It’s night by the time Hank returns to the mangrove beach, dark leaves rustling in the salt breeze welcoming him back. Hank can see Connor’s soft glow from a distance even before he makes out the shape of him or even the shapes of any of their familiar trees. Even so, he knows Connor has to have seen him coming for miles.

When he finally gets close enough to actually see Connor, he sees that he’s sitting among the roots of a mangrove tree, the one that’s just the right shape for Connor and Hank to sit comfortably next to each other. But Hank doesn’t climb up onto the roots from the water, yet. He just floats there, looking up at Connor.

Connor sits primly, his tail neatly tucked underneath him. He only looks over at Hank for a brief moment before he looks back down at his hands. “When I thought my time was limited, the only thing I was worried about was you. I was worried you would kill yourself when I was gone.”

“Connor,” Hank croaks.

“Just shut up and let me say this,” Conor says, his voice strained. It softens again when he continues. “I’m still worried about that. I might still be around, but I don’t harbor any illusions that I’d be able to stop you if you wanted to make another attempt. I wasn’t enough that second time.”

Hank flushes with shame and presses his face against the roots until it aches.

“I know I can’t do anything to help you,” Connor says. “I’ve been reading up on the most helpful things for depression. Strong community ties, a support system, access to psychiatric care and therapy. Those are only things you’ll find if you rejoin human society.”

There’s a short pause. Then Hank says, “It’s… sorta messed up. I wanted you to go away to save your life, now you want me to go away to save my life.”

Connor’s expression shifts into something almost disdainful. “I know. If this is what irony is, I don’t like it.”

A chuckle bubbles out of Hank, and Connor lets out a soft sigh above him. Connor shifts on his perch among the roots to indicate that there’s room enough for Hank, and Hank feels almost as though his chest is splitting open as he hauls himself up to sit next to Connor.

Connor brushes Hank’s shoulder with his own. “Will you go?”

Gently, Hank says, “Do you really think I’m any less stubborn than you are?”

Connor’s shoulders sag. “...I don’t understand. You hate it here.”

“I don’t hate it here.”

“You’re not happy here.”

“I’m not happy anywhere. Look, Connor—” Hank turns to face him. “It’s more complicated than that. You can’t fix people just by telling them to do something.”

Connor gets that distant, sorrowful look in his eyes. “People can change.”

“People have to _wan_ t to change. People have to want to fix themselves.”

Connor meets Hank’s gaze. “So what do you want, Hank? What would make you happy?”

Hank heaves a sigh, letting his mouth hang open. He can’t think of a single thing with which to answer Connor’s question. He came to the southern tip of Florida in an attempt to escape his misery, and he failed. Retreating to total isolation in such a beautiful place was a radical, desperate move, and it was a last-ditch effort. He has no other ideas.

Connor’s hand finds its way to his arm, touching his bicep. Hank looks at him, and their eyes lock.

“...I don’t know,” Hank admits, unable to pull himself away from Connor’s insistent gaze. 

There’s a gentle mist rising up from the water, coating the roots of the mangrove trees with moisture. Up above, the sky is bright with more stars than Hank can ever recall seeing at one time, as if someone spread diamond powder across the night. Hank thinks maybe the sky has a soft blue cast to it, but that might just be because of the glow of Connor’s LED, and the seams and fins of his tail.

It’s the most beautiful sight Hank thinks he’s ever seen in his life. 

And he can’t bring himself to care about it.

Connor frowns absently. “...So if you don’t want to leave this place, and I don’t want to leave this place, then why don’t we just stay here? Together?”

 _That’s what I was going to do anyway_ , Hank nearly says, but something in Connor’s voice gives him pause. He can’t put his finger on what it is, exactly, but something about the way Connor says ‘together’ makes it sound like something entirely new. Not the same setup they’ve had for weeks now, but something neither of them have experienced before.

“You never wanted me to leave, did you?” Hank asks.

Connor lowers his gaze. “...No. I wanted you to be safe, but… I didn’t want you to leave. I don’t have anything else here.”

Hank shifts just a little closer to Connor. “That’s called loneliness, Connor.”

“Then you’re lonely too.”

Hank hesitates, then he lets out a soft huff. “...Yeah. I’m lonely too.”

“And not just because you’re depressed.”

“Yeah.”

Connor’s brows are drawn in a look of soft discontent. “...This isn’t healthy. We shouldn’t be everything to each other. It isn’t enough.” A pause, and then Connor says, “But I still want things to stay like this. Is that what addiction feels like, Hank?”

Hank flushes. “I haven’t been going back to my—”

“I know. But if you’ve replaced it with something else… if I…” Connor trails off. “...If… if I’m what… if you’re…”

“Connor,” Hank interrupts gently, putting a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. We can just… be whatever we want to be. You don’t need to download some self-help guide to tell you how things should be.”

Connor looks at Hank’s hand on his shoulder. Slowly, with an air of deliberation, he picks Hank’s hand off of himself and holds it in his lap, turning it over in both his hands.

Hank watches him. His hand is larger and meatier than Connor’s, but Connor treats it like it’s something delicate. Pressing at it gently with his thumbs and unfurling it with his fingers.

Eventually, Connor laces their fingers together. His skin recedes as he does, and Hank is surprised by the texture of cool, smooth silicone against his fingers. 

“What is that?” Hank asks quietly. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen this. Is something broken?”

“No,” Connor says. A pause, and then he says a little more softly, “Maybe.”

Then he leans into Hank’s lap and presses his lips against Hank’s. 

Hank feels detached from himself. He observes Connor’s kiss as though he were a visitor in his own body. Connor’s lips don’t move against his, they just sit there absolutely motionless, like their lips had _just happened_ to touch. Connor has tilted his head to avoid their noses bumping, but there’s no technique to what he is doing other than that. With their hands laced between them and such a slow, still kiss, Hank vaguely wonders where Connor learned to do this.

Connor finally draws back. His eyes flicker about Hank’s face as though he’s searching for clues about how Hank feels, now. He asks, in a small voice, “Can I try to be enough for you?”

Hank’s first instinct is to say _no_ , because he knows nothing will ever be enough for him. Not Connor, not this paradise they inhabit, not the lazy days they spend by each other’s side and the quiet moments they share together. Nothing has ever been enough for Hank, and he doesn’t think anything will ever change that.

But he’s still holding Connor’s hand. He hasn’t drawn back or pushed Connor away. He’s pushed Connor away so many times before, and yet, he isn’t doing it now.

Does he _love_ Connor? He doesn’t know. It’s the first time he’s even consciously considered it, and there’s too much else inside of him right now for him to parse everything he feels about Connor. There’s too much shame and guilt, too much malaise. Even now, some small part of him wants to sink into the water at the roots of the mangrove and lay there forever. Maybe that part of him will always be there.

But the one thing that he can grasp is that he _needs_ Connor. Connor was right to worry about him; if Connor had gone to Cuba, Hank would have been dead in less than a month. He needs Connor, and he wants Connor to be safe and happy and have some sort of future. A better future than spending formless, tedious days just waiting for something to change.

Maybe Hank could be part of that future. Maybe they can be for each other what neither of them can have on their own. 

Hank lets out a soft breath. He pulls Connor’s face toward him and gives him a _real_ kiss, his lips parting against Connor’s as he encourages him to kiss him back. Slowly, Connor begins to mimic Hank’s movements, turning his head into the kiss as Hank deepens it. Connor’s eyes stay open the entire time, even as Hank closes his.

When Hank draws away, Connor raises his skinless fingers to touch his own lips as though Hank’s kiss might have molded them into a different shape. He smooths his fingertips over them, a contemplative look on his face. “...Does this mean you agree with me? We should stay here with each other?”

Hank slowly leans into Connor. It’s almost strange; he’s touched Connor in so many ways before. He’s punched Connor and wrestled with him and grabbed him to make him stop moving. But this somehow feels like the very first time he’s actually had Connor’s body against his. 

“Yeah. We’ll stay with each other.”

***

The Florida sun blazes in the sky above, bright enough to blind Hank when he rises to the surface for a breath of air. The air is hot and still and uncomfortable, and even the trees on the distant shore seem to be wilting under the heat and the humidity.

To protect himself from the worst of the sun, Hank is spending as much of the day underwater as he can. Floating close to the sea floor, ripples of light illuminating the bright rock formations and coral around him. Ahead of himself, he can see colorful fish darting here and there, and he moves slowly, imitating a harmless manatee as much as he can.

It works. Some of the fish avoid him, but enough of them don’t notice him or don’t consider him a threat until his diving knife flashes and he has a decently-sized dead fish in his hands.

Connor swims up next to him and plucks the fish from his hand. Hank lets him, and turns his attention to his knife, rubbing scales and a fleck of viscera from the edge.

Connor holds the fish in front of his face, eyeing it for a moment. He lifts it to his mouth and sticks his tongue into the deep cut that killed it. “...No good, Hank. This one is parasitized with nematodes.”

Hank shoots Connor an annoyed look. He pantomimes turning the fish on a spit.

“No, that wouldn’t be enough. It would kill the parasites, but they’ve already tainted the fish with biochemicals that could make you sick.”

Hank rolls his eyes, waving his knife in a loose circle to indicate the number of fish around them. Hank has eaten untreated fish for so long, one more can’t possibly matter.

But Connor still isn’t swayed. He drops the fish and takes Hank’s knife. “Sorry. Go back to shore. I’ll catch you something else.” Then he turns on his fin and swims off before Hank can properly communicate how aggravated he is to have Connor monitoring his food like he’s a child.

Hank watches the dead fish sink to the floor below. A tiny cloud of sand is kicked up around it where it lands, and two more fish scatter at the disturbance. It lays there, unseeing, and Hank reminds himself that Connor is just trying to protect him from winding up like that fish, dead at the bottom of the sea.

He turns and begins swimming in the direction of the mangrove beach. Eventually, Connor returns with another fish, something even larger than the one Hank had caught earlier. At low tide, Hank roasts the fish and eats it sitting next to Connor as they watch the sun sink toward the horizon and watch the surf come in, the dainty waves tickling Connor’s fins and Hank’s feet.

The sky glows a brilliant color; fluorescent orange closest to the horizon, fading up to a vibrant purple that darkens into night. The colors are dimly reflected in the wave-riddled sea, and a warm ocean breeze makes Hank feel like he’s being wrapped in the softest blanket.

But that might just be the way Connor is holding onto his arm, clutching it like he’s afraid he might be ripped away from Hank at any moment. 

Hank eats one-handed, and when he’s finished, he tosses the fish bones into the surf. Connor still doesn’t let go.

“You okay?” Hank asks. “Need to distract yourself with a movie or something?”

Connor is staring past Hank, somewhere off in the distance past the coast and the swampland. “I keep thinking about those androids who kissed each other. It was so surreal to watch. It’s just as surreal to feel like I’m in that very same moment.”

Hank doesn’t say anything. He just slowly traces a finger up a seam in Connor’s tail, where the silicone ends and where the solid, human waist begins. Letting Connor’s voice fill his head.

“They saved themselves with their love,” Connor murmurs. “Is it going to be enough for us?”

Hank sighs softly. The truth is that Hank doesn’t know. Love wasn’t enough to save Hank any of the other times he has loved throughout his life. Maybe this time will be different and they’ll manage to carve out the life and future that Hank desperately wants for them. Maybe they’ll both fall apart and die for a want of each other and something neither of them can provide.

More likely, they’ll continue on like this. Day after day like this for a few months, or for a few years, or a few decades. Clinging to each other to sate their ever-present loneliness and trying to find the beauty of the world around them through each other. 

Maybe one day it won’t be enough. But for now, in this moment, with an endless expanse of ocean in front of them and their home along the mangroves cradling them, it’s enough. 

“Let’s put on a movie,” Hank says. He pulls Connor into his lap and holds one of his wrists until he finally relents and puts on something neither of them have seen before. Hank watches over Connor’s shoulder, resting his face against Connor’s and wondering if this is what happiness feels like.

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Follow the author [@CeilingKiwi](https://twitter.com/CeilingKiwi)
> 
> Follow the co-author & artist [@raviquarium](https://twitter.com/raviquarium)


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